
PRESENTED FT 



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1 POEMS 


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ROBERT BURNS. 

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A NEW EDITION. 


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PUBLISHED BY JOHN HENDERSON. Ij 


1847. 


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The present edition of the " Poems of Burns" differs 
from every previous one, inasmuch as it is the most 
comprehensive ever yet issued in the same form. It 
contains all the pieces which have heen collected by 
the poet's distinguished editors, Gurrie, Cunningham, 
Hogg, Motherwell, &c., many being exceedingly 
beautiful, and without which, indeed, no edition of 
his works can be considered complete. 

Itmay also be observed, that, in the satirical writings 
of the author, the names of individuals and localities 
are given unreservedly, from the conviction, that no 
unhappy feeling can at this period be excited by the 
publication of the former, and that the latter will 
render the text more complete and more interesting. 



CONTENTS. 



Memoir op Robert Burns, x 

Dedication, xv 

POEMS. 

The Twa Dogs, 1 

Scotch Drink, 7 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer, . . . .11 

The Holy Fair, 16 

Death and Doctor Hornbook, 22 

The Brigs of Ayr, 28 

The Ordination, . .34 

The Calf, . . ,37 

Address to the Deil, 38 

Death and dying words of poor Mailie, the author's only 

pet yowe .42 

To James Smith 45 

A Dream, 49 

The Vision, 53 

Address to the Unco Guid, ...... 61 

Tam Samson's Elegy, 63 

Halloween, 66 

The auld farmer's new-year-morning salutation to his 

mare Maggie, 75 

To a Mouse, 78 

A Winter Night, 79 

Epistle to Davie, 82 

The Lament, 86 

Despondency, . . 88 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, . , . . ■ . 90 

Winter, .95 

Man was made to mourn, 96 

A Prayer, on the prospect of death, . . . .98 

Stanzas on the same occasion 99 

Verses, left at a friend's house 99 

The First Psalm, 100 

A Prayer under the pressure of violent anguish, . .101 
The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm, . . .101 

To a Mountain Daisy, 102 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, . . , . . . .104 
To the same, 107 



VI CONTENTS. 

To William Simpson, 110 

Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, . . .115 

The Jolly Beggars, 116 

Epistle to a young friend, .♦ 126 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., . . .128 
A Bard's Epitaph, . . . . . . . .131 

Address to Edinburgh, ... , . . . .132 

On Captain Matthew Henderson, 134 

Tarn O'Shanter, . . . . . . . .138 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems, . . . .143 

Tragic Fragment, 144 

To a Kiss, 144 

Holy Willie's Prayer, 145 

Epitaph on Holy Willie, 147 

Epistle to John Goudie of Kilmarnock, . . .148 

Epistle to John Rankine, 149 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik, . . . . .150 
Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math, . . . .152 

The American War, 154 

Second Epistle to Davie, 156 

On William Smellie, .158 

To Ruin, .153 

To a Louse, . 1 59 

The Inventory, 160 

A note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, . .162 

Willie Chalmers, 163 

Lilies written on a bank note, 165 

Lament, written when about to leave Scotland, . .165 

On a Scottish Bard, 166 

The Farewell, . .167 

To a Haggis, 168 

Extempore in the court of session, .... 170 
To the Guidwife of Wauchope house, . . . .170 
Verses written under the portrait of Fergusson, . . 172 
Inscription on the headstone of Fergusson, . . .172 
Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods, . . . . .173 

Epistle to William Creech, 174 

On the death of Sir James Hunter Blair, . . .176 
On scaring some water-fowl in Lough-Turit, . .177 
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water, . . . .178 

The Hermit, . 181 

Verses written at Kenmore, Ti^mouth, . . .182 
Verses written by the Fall of Ffers, . . . .183 
Elegy on the death of Lord President Dundas, . .183 
On reading in a newspaper the death of John M'Leod, 

Esq., . . .184 

Address to Mr. William Tytler, 185 

To Miss Cruickshanks, 18^j 

A Sketch, 187 



CONTENTS. Vll 

To Clarinda, 188 

To Clarinda, on leaving Edinburgh, . . . .188 
An extemporaneous effusion on being appointed to the 

excise, 189 

Epistle to Hugh Parlier, . . . . . .189 

Written in Friars' Carse hermitage, . . . .190 

Extempore to Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, . .192 
A mother's lament for the death of her son, . .192 

Elegy on the year 1788, 193 

Address to the Toothache, 194 

Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, . . .195 

The Kirk's Alarm, .196 

To Mr. M'Adam, 199 

Delia, 200 

Verses written under violent grief, .... 200 
Lines on meeting with Lord Daer, .... 201 

Epistle to Major Logan, 202. 

On seeing a wounded hare limp by me, . . . 204 

Letter to James Tennant, 205 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right. Hon. C. J. Fox, . 206 
Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the poems, . . 208 

To Dr. Blacklock, 208 

Sketch on New-year's-day, • 210 

Prologue, spoken at the theatre, Dumfries, . . .211 
Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's benefit-night, . .212 

Peg Nichclson, 213 

Lines to a gentleman who had sent the poet a news- 
paper, , . . .214 

To my Bed, • . 215 

First Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry, . . .216 

The Five Carlins, 218 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith, . . . .221 
Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry, . . .221 
On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland, . 225 

Written in an Envelope, 226 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland 

Society, 227 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach of 

Spring, .229 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, .... 230 
Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, .... 232 

The Whistle, 233 

Elegy on Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, . . . .234 
Third Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry, . . .236 
Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry, . . .239 

The Rights of Woman, 239 

A Vision, 240 

Liberty, a fragment, 241 

On Pastoral Poetry, . .* 242 



Vm CONTENTS. 

To Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, 243 

Sonnet, on hearing a thrush sing, . . .... . 244 

The Tree of Liberty, .245 

To General Dumourier, 247 

Monody on a lady famed for her caprice, . . . 247 
Sonnet on the death of Captain Riddel, . . . 248 
Lines to a gentleman the author had oflfended, . . 249 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria, 249 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birth-day, . . .251 
Verses to Miss Graham, of Fintry, .... 252 

The Vowels, 252 

To Chloris, 253 

Verses to John Rankine, 254 

On Sensibility, 254 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, .... 255 
Address to the Shade of Thomson, .... 256 
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Elections, .... 256 

The Election, 258 

An Excellent New Song, 260 

On Life, 262 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence, . , . 263 

On the death of a favourite child, 264 

To Mr. Mitchell, 264 

The Dean of Faculty, ....... 265 

The Ruined Maid's Lament, ...... 266 

On th« Destruction of the Woods near Eiruralanrig, . 267 

On the Duke of Queensberry, 268 

Impromptu on Willie Stewart, 269 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, 269 

To John M'Murdo, Esq:, 270 

On Mr. M*Murdo, 270 

Remorse, a fragment, 270 

Johnny Peep, 271 

EPIGRAMS. 

On a Henpecked Country Squire, .... 272 

On his Widow, 272 

On an Illiterate Gentleman, 272 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr, 272 

On Captain Grose, 273 

On Elphinstone's Translations of Martial's Epigrams, 273 

On Miss Bums, 273 

Written on a window of the inn at Carron, . . . 273 
Written on a pane of glass in the inn at Moffat, . . 274 

Fragment, 274 

On incivility shown the author at Inverary, . . • 274 

Highland Hospitality, 275 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble 275 

On the Kirk at Lamington, 275 



CONTENTS. iX 

The Solemn League and Covenant, . . . .275 

On a certain parson's looks, 275 

On seeing the beautiful seat of the Earl of , . . 276 

On the Earl of 276 

On the same, 276 

To the same, on being threatened with his resentment, 276 

On an Empty Fellow, 276 

Written on the occasion of a national thanksgiving, . 277 

The True Loyal Natives, 277 

Inscription on a Goblet, 277 

Extempore to Mr. Syme, 277 

To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of porter, . 277 

The Creed of Poverty, 278 

To Miss Fontenelle, 278 

To John Taylor, 278 

Written on a window of the Globe Tavern, DumflrieS) 279 

The Toast, 279 

Excisemen Universal, 279 

Written in a lady's pocket-book, » . . . . 280 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's recovery, . . 280 
On Jessy Lewars, . . . . . . . . 280 

Graces before meat, 281 

EPITAPHS. 

On the Author's Father, 282 

On a Henpecked Country Squire, ^ 

On a Celebrated Ruling Elder, ^82 

On a Noisy Polemic, 282 

On Wee Johnny, 283 

On John Dove, 283 

For Robert Aiken, Esq., 283 

On a Friend, , . 283 

For Gavin Hamilton, 284 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire, . . 284 

On Mr. W. Cruickshanks, 284 

On Wat, 284 

For William Nicol, 284 

On W 285 

On the same, 285 

On Gabriel Richardson, ...... 285 

On John Bushby, 285 

On the Poet's Daughter, 285 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child . . . .286 



MEMOIR OF ROBERT BJTRNS. 



This celebrated bard was born on the 29tli of January, 
1759, on the banks of the Doon, about two miles from 
Ayr, near to which stand the ruins of Alloway Kirk, 
rendered immortal by his admirable tale of " Tam o' 
Shanter." 

His father, William Burns, was a farmer in Ayr- 
shire, a man of very respectable character and of 
more than ordinary information and capacity. It is 
stated by Burns, that to his father's observations and 
experience, he was indebted for most of his little pre- 
tensions to wisdom. From such a son, this eulogium 
cannot be thought undeserving. In 1759, he married 
Agnes Brown. Our poet was the first fruit of this 
union. He was sent to school when about six years 
old, where he was taught to read English and to write 
a little; and so.great was his progress, that he became 
a critic in English Grammar at the age of eleven, and 
was also remarkable for the correctness of his pro- 
nunciation. His rudiments of arithmetic he got from 
his father in the winter evenings. He says of him- 
self, in his letter to Dr. Moore : " At those years I was 
by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good 
deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic 
idiot piety. I say, idiot piety, because I was then but 
a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some 
thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar; 
and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I 
was a critic in substantives, verbs, and participles. In 
my infant and my boyish days, too, I owed much to an 
old woman who resided in the fdmily, remarkable for 
lier ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, 
I suppose, the largest collection in the country, of 
tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairjes, 
brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- 
caudles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparations, cantraips, 



MEMOIR or BURNS. XI 

giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other truniph- 
ery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poeti7 ,' but 
had so strong an effect on my im.agination, that to 
this hour, in my nocturnal rambles,! sometimes keep 
a shai'p look-out in suspicious places ; and though 
nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such 
matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
shake off these idle terrors." 

Before he was nine years of age, he had acquired 
a strong propensity for reading, which, however, was 
greatly checked by his want of access to books. He 
read the life of Hannibal through with great avidity, 
and eagerly perused every other book that came in 
his way. Even at this early period, his sensibility 
was extraordinary; yet he had not discovered any 
signs of that striking ready wit for which he was 
afterwai'ds remarkable, nor betrayed the smallest 
symptom of his inchnation to music and poetry. 

About a twelvemonth previous to the death of his 
father, Burns, who had then attained his twenty- 
fourth year, became anxious to be fixed in a situation 
to enable him to maiTy. His brother Gilbert and he 
had for several years held a small portion of land 
from their father, on which they chiefly raised flax. 
In disposing of the produce of their labour, our 
author contemplated the commencement of the busi- 
ness of flax-dressing. He accordingly continued at 
that employment for about six months, but it proved 
an unlucky speculation; for the shop some time after 
taking fire, was utterly destroyed, and he was reduced 
to absolute poverty. 

Immediately before the death of their father, Burns 
and his brother took the farm at Mossgiel, consisting 
of 118 acres, at ^£90 per annum. It was stocked by the 
the property and individual savings of the whole fa- 
mily, and was a joint concern. But the first year, 
fi'om buying bad seed, and the second from a late har- 
vest, they lost half their crops. 

It was about this time that he formed the connexion 
with Miss Jeran Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. When 
the effects of this intimacy could no longer be con- 
cealed, our poet, in order to screen his partner from 



XU MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

the consequences of their imprudence, agreed to make 
a written acknowledgment of their marriage, and 
then endeavour to push his fortune in Jamaica, till 
Providence enabled him to support a family comfort- 
ably. This was, however, strenuously opposed by 
her relations ; and her father, with whom she was a 
great favourite, advised her to renounce every idea of 
such a union, conceiving that a husband in Jamaica 
was little better than none. She was therefore pre- 
vailed upon to cancel the papers, and thus render the 
marriage null and void. When this circumstance was 
mentioned to Burns, he was in a state bordering on 
distraction. He offered to stay at home, and provide 
for his family in the best manner possible; but even 
this proposition was rejected. 

He then agreed with a Dr. Douglas to go to Jamaica, 
as an assistant overseer or clerk, and made every 
preparation to cross the Atlantic; but, previous to his 
departure, he was advised to publish a volume of his 
poems by subscription. With the first fruits of his 
poetical labours, he paid his passage, and purchased 
a few articles of clothing, &c. His chest was already 
on the way to Greenock, when a letter from Dr. Black- 
lock, signifying his approbation of the poems, and an 
assurance that Bums would meet with encouragement 
in Edinburgh for a second edition, completely changed 
his intentions. 

Soon after his arrival in Edinburgh, (early in De- 
cember, 1786,) his poems procured him the admira- 
tion of all conditions. Persons of rank and power 
were not above taking notice of him : and in a short 
time the name of Burns was celebrated over all the 
kingdom. It ought here to be mentioned to his ho- 
nour, that he had been in Edinburgh only a few 
months, and was still in the midst of poverty, when he 
erected a monument in Canon-gate church-yard to 
the memory of the celebrated but unfortunate poet, 
Fergusson. 

In E dinburgh. Burns beheld mankind in a new light. 
Surrounded on all sides by admirers, his days were 
spent in the company of the great, his evenmgs in 
dissipation. This kind of life he led nearly a twelve- 



MEMOIR OF BURNS. Xlll 

month, when his friends suggested to him the neces- 
sity of seeking a permanent establishment. 

Having settled accounts with his publisher in Fe- 
bruary, 1788, Bums became master of nearly ^500. 
With this sum he returned to Ayrshire, where he 
found his brother Gilbert struggling to support their 
aged mother, a younger brother, and three sisters in 
the farm of Mossgiel. He immediately advanced ^9200 
to their relief. With the remainder, and what further 
profits might accrue to him from his poems, Bums 
seriously resolved to settle for life, and resume the oc- 
cupation of agriculture. 

Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, offered him the choice 
of a farm on his estate at his own terms. Burns 
readily accepted this generous offer. He took with 
him two friends to value the land, and fixed on the 
farm of EUisland, about six miles above Dumfries, on 
the banks of the river Nith, on which he entered at 
Whitsunday, 1788. 

Previously to this period, however, he had been re- 
commended to the Board of Excise, by Mr. Graham, 
of Fintry, and had his name enrolled among the list 
of candidates for the humble office of an exciseman. 
Expecting that the Board would appoint him to act 
in the district where his farm was situated, he began 
assiduously to qualify himself for the proper exer- 
cise of the employment, in the fond hopes of soon 
uniting with success the labours of the farmer with 
the duties of his new profession. 

No sooner had he arranged the plan of his future 
pursuits, than his whole thoughts were bent towards 
the object who had ever been nearest and dearest to 
his heart. Her relations now endeavoured to promote 
their union with more zeal than they had formerly 
opposed it ; and they were immediately united by a 
regular marriage, thus legalising their union, and ren- 
dering it permanent for life. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of 
his neighbours, and he soon formed a general ac- 
quaintance in the district in which he lived. Their 
social parties, however, too often seduced him from 
his rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew the 



XXV MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

unsteady fabric of his resolutions, and inflamed those 
propensities which temperance might have weakened 
and prudence ultimately suppressed. It was not long 
therefore, before Burns began to view his farm with 
dislike and (despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an 
office in the excise as a certain means of livelihood, 
should his other expectations fail. As has already 
been mentioned, he had been recommended to the 
Board of Excise, and had received the instructions 
necessary fGr such a situation. He now applied to be 
employed; and, by the interest of Mr. Graham,of Fin- 
try, was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it is vul- 
garly called guager, of the district in which he lived. 
The duties of this disagreeable situation, besides ex- 
posing him to numberless temptations, occupied that 
part of his time which ought to have been bestowed 
in cultivating his farm; which, .after this period, 
was in a great measure abandoned to servaats. It 
is easy to conjecture the consequences. Notwith- 
stanjjing the moderation of the rent, and the pru- 
dent management of Mrs. Burns, he found it con- 
venient, if not necessary, to resign his farm into the 
hands of Mr. Miller, after having possessed it for the 
space of three years and a half. The stock and crop 
being afterwards sold by public auction, he removed 
with his family to a small house in Dumfries, about 
the end of the'yeai: 1791, to devote himself to an em- 
ployment which sbemed from the first to afford but 
little hopes of future happiness. 

He resided four years at Dumfries. During this 
time he had hoped for promotion in the excise; but 
an event occurred which at least delayed its fulfil- 
ment. The events of the French Kevolution were 
commented on by him in a manner very different 
from what might "have been expected from an officer 
under government. Information of this was given to 
the Board of Excise. A superior officer in that de- 
partment was authorised to enquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself in a letter addressed to one 
of the Board, written with great independence of 
Bnirit, and with more than his accustomed eloquence. 



DEDICATION. XV 

The officer appointed to enquire into his conduct gave 
a favourable report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham, 
of Fintry, interposed his good offices in his behalf ; 
and he was suflered to retain his situation, but was 
given to understand that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend upon his future behaviour. 

In the month of Jime, 1796, he removed to Brow, 
in Annandale, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try 
the effect of sea-bathing; a remedy that at first, he 
imagined, relieved rheumatic pains in his limbs, -^vlth 
which he had been afflicted for some months : but 
this was immediately followed by a new attack of 
fever. When brought back to his own house in Dum- 
fries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to 
stand upright. The fever increased, attended with 
delirium and debility, and on the 21st he expired, in 
the thirty-eighth year of his age. He left a widow and 
four sons. The ceremonial of his interment was ac- 
companied with military honours, not only by the 
corps of Dumfries Volunteers, of which he was a 
mefnber, but by the Fencible Infantry, and regiment 
of the Cinque Port Cavalry, then quartered in Dum- 
fries. 



DEDICATION. 

to the noblemen and gentlemen of the 

caledonian hunt. 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose 
highest ambition is to sing in his country's service — 
where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the 
illustrious names of his native land; those who bear 
the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors ? 
The Poetic Genius of my country found me as the 
prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— at the plough, and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me 
sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes, and rural 
pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue : I 
tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She 



XVI DEDICATION-. 

whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis 
Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honou ' 
protection : I now obey her dictates. ' 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do " ' 
approach you, my lords and gentlemen, in the us ^ 
style of dedication, to thank you for past favours : tl '- 
path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, tL ' 
honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I presei 
this address with the venal soul of a servile autho 
looking for a continuation of those favours : I was 
bred to the plough, and am independent. I come 
to claim the common Scottish name with you, my il- 
lustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that I 
glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country 
that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uneon- 
taminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, 
and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, 
and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my 
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the 
Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and hap- 
piness. 

When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the 
ancient and favourite amusement of your fore- 
fathers, may pleasure ever be of your party; and 
may social joy await your return. -When harassed ixi 
courts or camps, with the jostlings of bad men an^ 
bad measures, may the honest consciousness of in- 
jured worth attend your return to your native seats -; 
and may domestic happiness, with a smiling wel 
come, meet you at your gates ! May corruption shrink 
at your kindling, indignant glance ; and may tyrann 
in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equall;^ 
find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, with the sincerest grat* 
tude, and highest respect, my lords and gentlemev 
your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBEET BUENS. 

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. 



T., 
af 



CONTENTS. 



SONGS. 



Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 1 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, .... 2 

young Peggy, 3 

Montgomery's Peggy, . 4 

Bonnie Peggy Alison, 4 

John Barleycorn, 6 

The Rigs o' Barley, 6 

Song composed in August, ...... 7 

Yon wild mossy mountains, . .^ . . , . 9 

The Ploughman, 10 

My Nannie, O, .11 

The Cure for all Care, . . . . . , .12 

On Cessnock banks, 13 

The Lass of Ballochmyle, 14 

Powers Celestial, 15 

The Highland Lassie, 16 

Green grow the rashes, 17 

h rom thee, Eliza, 17 

ilenie, 18 

'^he Farewell, .19 

The gloomy night is gathering fast, . . . .20 

'■inid Birks of Aberfeldy, 21 

The Braes o* Ballochmyle, 22 

-r he Banks o* Doon, 22 

^'he Banks of the Devon, 23 

-trathallan's Lament, 23 

^-{ere's a health to them that's awa, . . . .24 
am my mammy's ae bairn, ....«• 25 

<ow long and dreary is the night, 25 

Braving angry winter's storms, 26 

lacpherson's Farewell, 26 

Bonnie Castle-Gordon, , . 27 

ly Peggy's face, 28 

iaving winds around her blowing, . , • .28 

Highland Harry, 29 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 29 

Blithe was she, o • 30 






CONTENTS. 



The Gallant Wearer, 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 

The Young Highland Rover, 

When Januar' wind, 

Bonnie Ann, . . . , 

Ae fond kiss, . . 

My Bonnie Mary, , 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

Blooming Nelly, 

The Chevalier's Lament, 

My heart's in the Highlands, . 

John Anderson, 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill, 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw. 

To Mary in Heaven, 

Young Jockey, . , . , 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

I gaed a waefu* gate yestreen, 

The Banks of Nith, 

Meikle thinks my love, . 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 

There'll never be peace, . 

I do confess thou art sae fair. 

Oh, Willie brewed a peck o' maut. 

How can I be blithe and glad. 

Hunting Song, 

What can a young lassie, 

Bonnie wee thing, . 

Kenmure's on and awa, . 

ph for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 

Lovely Davies, 

Bess and her .Spinning-wheel, 

Oh, love will venture in. 

Fair Eliza, .... 

Country Lassie, 

Willie Wastle, . . . 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 

Song of Death, ... 

She's fair and fause, . ; 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, 

The lovely lass of Inverness, . 

My love's like a red red rose, . 

Oh, wat ye wha's in yon K)wn, 

It was a' for our rightful king. 

Oh, wha is slie that loes me, . _ 

Louis, what reck I by thee, . 

The Exciseman, 



of the hill, 



CONTENTS. V 

Somebody, 64 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town 64 

Wilt thou be ray dearie, 65^ 

But lately seen, 65 

Could aught of song, 66 

Gh, steer her up, .66 

Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass, . . , . .67 

Caledonia, 67 

Anna, thy charms, 69 

My ^ady's gown, there's gairs upon't, . . . .69 
Gloomy December, ....... 70 

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 70 

Cassilis* Banks,* 71 

The Fete Champetre, 71 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, ..... 73 
Lovely Polly Stewart, ....... 73 

The Dumfries Volunteers, 74 

Yestreen I had a pint of wine, 75 

The Lea Rig, . . . ... . .75 

Bonnie Lesley, 76 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, . . . .77 

My wife's a winsome wee thing, 77 

Poortith Cauld, . . . . . . , .78 

Highland Mary, 79 

Auld Rob Morris, .79 

Duncan Gray, 80 

Gala Water, 81 

Lord Gregory,- 82 

Mary Morison, 82 

Wandering Willie, 83 

The Soldier's Return, 84 

Bonnie Jean, g5 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, , . . , .87 

Meg o' the Mill, 87 

Logan Braes, 88 

Open the door to me, oh, .88 

Phillis the Fair, 89 

Oh, gin my love were yon red rose, . , , .90 

A down winding Nlth I did wander, . , . ! 90 
Young Jessie, .......",.* 91 

Had I a cave, 92 

Dainty Davie, .' ! 92 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, . . , .93 
.Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, . . , .93 

Bruce's Address, 94 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, . . . .95 

Behold the hour, ! 95 

Thou hast left me ever, ! 96 

Wher^ are the joys 96 



Vi CONTENTS. 

Auld Lang Syne, 97 

Deluded swain, the pleasure, 97 

How long and dreary is the night, 98 

My Spouse Nancy, 99 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 100 

The Banks of Cree, .100 

On the' seas and far away, . . . , . . 101 
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, . . . . . .102 

Saw ye my Phely, 102 

81eep*st thou or wakest thou, 103 

She says she loes me best of a', 104 

Let not woman e'er complain, 105 

Contented wi' little, 105 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, . , .106 

My Mannie's awa, ♦ .106 

It was the charming month of May, . . . .107 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy, . . . .108 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, . , , . .108 

Philly and Willys 109 

Craigieburn Wood, . , . . . . .110 

For a' that and a* that, . . . . . . .111 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows, . . .112 

Oh lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 112 

Address to the Woodlark, , , . . . .113 

Oh, this is no my ain lassie, , 114 

On Chloris being ill, . 115 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle, 115 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, . . .116 
How cruel are the parents, . . . . . .116 

Spring has clad the grove in green, . . . ,117 

Mark yon pomp of costly fashion, 118 

Fragment, . . . . . . . . .118 

Oh, bonnie was yon rosy brier, 119 

Jessy, 119 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near, . . . . .120 

Hey for a lass wi* a tocher, 120 

Last May a braw wooer, . . . ... .121 

I dreamed I lay, 122 

My father was a farmer, 123 

Handsome Nell, . . 124 

Stay, my charmer, . 125 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 126 

Hey, the dusty miller 126 

The Joyful Widower, 127 

The Belles of Mauchline, 127 

Up in the morning early, 128 

The sons of old Killie, 128 1 

Robin, y-iO \ 

Her flowing locks, • • .229 



CONTENTS. Vil 

Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary, 130 

Ob, where did you get, 130 

Summer's a pleasant time, 131 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 131 

Landlady, count the lawin, 132 

Come, boat me o'er to Charlie, . . . . .132 

The Captain's Lady, .133 

Oh aye my wife she dang me, 1 33 

First when Maggy was my care, 134 

There's a youth in this city, 134 

The Battle of Sherriflf-muir, 135 

Where hae ye been, .336 

There was a lass, 137 

Rattling Roaring Willie, 137 

Awa whigs, awa, . . 138 

Eppie Adair, . . . . . . . . .139 

The Highland Widow's Lament, 139 

Gone is the day, . . . ... . . 140 

Frae the friends and land I love, 141 

It is na, Jean, thy boniiie face, ... . . .141 

The tither morn, 142 

The weary pund o' tow, . , . . . . . 142 

Ye Jacobites by name, 143 

I hae a wife o' my ain, ....... 144 

"Nithsdale's welcome home 144 

My Collier Laddie, . . 145 

The Carle of Kellyburn Braes, 146 

To thee, loved Nith, 147 

As I was a-wandering, 148 

Jockey's taen the parting kiss, . . . . .148 
Lady Mary Ann, . . . . . . . . 149 

Out over the Forth, 149 

The Carles of Dysart, 150 

Lady Onlie, ......... 150 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, .... 151 

Coming through the rye, 151 

The Lass of Ecclefechan, . . . . . .152 

She's far awa, 152 

Bannocks o' Barley, 153 

Amang the trees, 153 

Wae is my heart, 1 54 

Robin shure in hairst, 154 

The Highland Laddie, . . . . . . .155 

On a Ploughman, 155 

The cardin o't, 156 

Sweetest May 156 

Though cruel fate, 166 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, . . . .157 



POEMS. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That hears the name ©' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a honnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thi'ang at hame, 
Forgathered ance upon a time. 

The fii'st I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hail', his size, his mouth, his lugs. 
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, 
But whalpit somev place far abroad. 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His lockit, lettered, braw brass collar. 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin' 
Wi' ony tinkler gipsy's messin : 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stant't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne ; Gude kens how lang. 

* Cachullin*s dog, in Ossian's Fingal. 
B 



BURNS'S POEMS. 

He was a gash and faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ; 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuffed and snowkit ; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scoured awa' in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin' weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there begdu a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wondered, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
And when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our laird gets in his rac^ked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach ; he ca's^his horse; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse. 
As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, 
The yellow-lettered Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stechin'. 
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 

And what poor cot-folk pit their paincli in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like; 
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, 
And nought but his ban' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack and rape. 
And when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer 
And they maun starve o' cauld and huDger : 
But how it comes I never kenned yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then, to see how ye're negleckit. 
How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespeckit I 
L — d, man ! our gentry care sae little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk. 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've noticed, on our laird's court-day. 
And mony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan' wi' aspect humble, 
And bear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretchets. 



They're no sae wretched's ane wad think, 
Though constantly on poortith's brink : 



BURNS S POEMS. 

They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And though fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

And whyles twalpenny worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the kirk and state affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns^ 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Tjove blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth 
Forgets there's care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The canty auld folk cracking crouse, 
The young anes rantin' through the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften played. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin', 
Eor Britain's guid liis saul indentin'. 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it : 

Say, rather, gaun as premiers lead him. 

And saying aye or no's they bid him. 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 

Or, maybe, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 

To mak a tour, and tak a whirl. 

To learn hon ton, and see the warl*. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh — re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter. 
And clear the consequential sorrows. 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae monie a braw estate ? 
Are we sae foughten and harassed 
For gear to gang that gate at last? 

Oh wad they stay aback frae courts. 
And please themselves wi' country sports. 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter ! 
For the frank, ranting, rambling billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows. 
Except for breaking o' their timmer. 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shooting o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 



BURNS S POEBIS. 



But will ye tell me, Maister Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure I 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't neediwi fear them. 



L — d, man! were ye but whyles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweet, 
Through winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age with grips and granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them. 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion less will hurt them : 
A country fellow at the pleugh. 
His acres tilled, he's right eneugh; 
A country lassie at her wheel; 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But gentlemen, and ladies warst, 
Wi* evendown want o' wark are cursed. 
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy ; 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless ; 
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races, * 
There galloping through public places ; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then souther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither. 
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and plaitic, 
They sip the scandal-potion pretty ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit lenks, 
Pore owre the devil's picture-beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
And cheat like o^y unhanged blackguard. 

There's some exception, man and Avoman ; 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight. 
And darker gloamin' brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Eejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took off his several way, 
Eesolved to meet some itlier day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
And liquor good to fire his blude, 

That's pressed wi' grief and care : 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

And minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us. 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us. 

In glass or jug. 

thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink, 
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown y ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thv name ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
And pease or beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume th» plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain i 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumbling in the boiling flood 

Wr kail and beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart* s blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us living ; 
Though life's a gift no worth receiving. 
When heavy dragged wi* pine and grieving ; 

But oiled by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattling glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited lear; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head. 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o* public haunts; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Even godly meetings o' the saints, 

By thee inspired. 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in. 
Oh, sweetly then thou reams the horn in I 



BURNS'AOEMS. 

Or reekin on a New-year mornin' 
In cog or bicker, ' 

And just a wee drap spiritual bum in. 
And gusty sucker I 

When Vulcan gies bis bellows breath, 
And plo^j^men gather wi' their graith, 
Oh, rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

r the luggit caup ! 
The Bumewin* comes on like death 

Al every chaup. 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel 

The Strang forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' Weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebours anger at a plea. 
And just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason; 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
And hardly in a winter's season. 

E'en spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning ti-asli ! 
Fell source o* mony a pain and brash ! 

* Burnewin, burn-the-wind, the blacksmith. 



10 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash 
0' hau-f his days ; 

And sendSj beside, auld Scotland's cash 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish anld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel'! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthful wines to mell. 

Of foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
And gouts torment them inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whisky-pxmch, 

Wi' honest men. 
Oh, whisky ! soul of plays and pranks ! 
Accept a bardie's humble thanks ; 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes ! they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s! 
Thee, Ferintosh ! oh, sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, and barking hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast. 

Is taen awa ! 
Thae cursed horse-leeches o' the excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', deil ! ance, twice, thiioe I 

There, seize the blinkers ; 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies. 

For poor d — ned drinkers. 
Fortune ! if thou'U but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And routh o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 11 

THE AUTHOK'S EAENEST CEY AND PEAYER^ 

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF 
COMMONS. 

Dearest of distillation ! last and best, 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Miltox, 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wha represent our bui'ghs and shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple poef s prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas I my roupet muse is hearse! 

Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitting on her a — -, 

Low i* the dust, 
And scriechin' out prosaic verse. 

And like to brust ? 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland and me's in great affliction, 
E'er syne they laid that cursed restriction 

On aquavitae ; 
And rouse them up to strong conviction, 

And move theu' pity. 

Stand forth, and tell yon premier youth. 

The honest, open, naked truth; 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble: 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble. , 

Does ony great man glunch and^gloom, 
Speak out, and never fash your thumb : 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom ^ 

Wr them wha grant 'em; 
If honestly they canna come. 

Far better want *em, 

? This was written before the act anent the Scottish dis- 
tilleries, of session, 1786; for which Scotland and the author 
returu their most grateful thanks. 



12 BURNS'S POEMS. 

In gathering votes you were na slack; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel, 
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom's a whissel; 
And damned excisemen in a bussel, 

Seizin' a stell. 
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then, on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her. 
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguingjoin, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's blude rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
And plundered o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! Pm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight! 
But could I like Montgomeries fight. 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

And tie some hose well- 
God bless your honours ! can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet. 
And no get warr^ly to your feet, 

Knd gar them hear it, 
And tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winnabearit ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period and pause. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 13 

And wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo through St. Stephen's wa's, 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a tiaie-blue Scot I'se warran; 
Thee, aith-dete sting, chaste Kilkerran;* 
And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The laird o' Graham;^ 
And ane, a chap that's d — ned auldfan-an, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie norland billie ; 
Trae Campbells, Frederick, and Bay; 
And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

And mony ithers. 
Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might owa for britliers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh-petde. 

You'll see't or lang. 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cankerous mood. 
Her lost militia fii'ed her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid. 

Played her that pliskie I ) 
And now she's like to rm red-wud 

About her whisky. 

Ah, L — d ! if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
And durk and pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
And rin her whittle to the hilt 

I' th' first she meets ! 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. 

*> The present Duke of Montrose (1800) 



14 BURNS'S POEMS. 

For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, 
And straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
And to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charhe Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks, 
But gie him't het, my hearty-cocks, 

E'en'cowe the caddie, 
And send him to his dicing-box 

And sporting lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnocks, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks. 
And drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's* 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He needna fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, 

The coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung ; 
And if she promised auld or young 

To tak their part. 
Though by the neck she should be strung. 
She'll no desert. 

And now, ye chosen five-and-forty, 

May still your mither's heart support ye ; 

Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

And kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty. 

Before his face. 

* A worthy old hostess of tha author's in Mauchline, where 
he sometimes studied politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch 
driuk. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 15 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o* kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings and prays 

While Kab his name is. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Let hauf-starved slaves in warmer skies, 
See future wines rich clustering rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blithe and frisky. 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak aff their whisky. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms I 
When wretches range in famished swarms 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hankering swither 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp, a shot ! they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, sic is royal George's will, 

♦ And there's the foe. 

He has nae thought but how to kiU 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes! wi' fearless e'ehe sees him; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 



16 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
And raise a pliilosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season; 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

. Scotland, my auld, respected mither, 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and whisky gan thegither, 
Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR'* 

A robe of seeming truth and trust 

His crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poisoned crust. 

The dirk of defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget showed, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in religion. 

Hypocrisy-la-Mode. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face was fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

And snuff the caller air : 
The rising sun o'er Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glinting ; 
The hares were hirpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chanting 
Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowred abroad, 

To see a scene so gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelping up the way : 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland 
for a sacramental occasion. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Twa had manteeles o' dolefn' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
Tlie third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 
Fu' gay that day. 
The twa appeared like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, and claes; 
Their visage withered, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes ; 
The third cam up, hap-stap-and-loup. 

As light as ony lambie. 
And wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that boimie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo* she, and laughing as she spak, 

And taks me by the hands, 
"Ye for my sake, hae gien the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 
*' My name is Fun, your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkledpak. 

We will get famous laughing 

At them this day." 
Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad frae side to side^ 

Wi' mony a weary body, 

In droves that day. 
c 



18 EURNS'S POEMS, 

Here farmers gash, in riding graitli, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies youug, in braw braid diiilli, 

Are swinging o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelping barefit, thrang. 

In silks and scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet milk-cheese in mony a whang, 

And faiis baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glower black bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On every side they're gathering. 
Some gathering dales, some chairs and stools. 

And some are busy blethering 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the showers, 

And screen our country gentry, 
There racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinking at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittling jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, 
For fun this day. 

Here some are thinking on their sins, 

And some upon their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screwed- up, grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winking on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 

Oh. happy is that man and blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinking down beside him 



BURNS'S POEMS. 19 

Wr arm reposed on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him, 
Which by degrees sHps round her neck, 
An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenned that day. 
Now a,' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie as in ancient days, 
'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Hoodie's face, 
To's ain het home had sent him, 
Wi' fright that day. 
Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' rattling and wi' thumping ; 
How meekly calm, how wild in wrath, 

He's stamping, and he's jumping ! 
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snouts 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh ! how they fire the heart devout. 
Like cantharidian plasters. 
On sic a day. 
But hark! the tent has changed its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise, 
They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues 

On xjractice and on morals ; 
And ail the godly pour in thrangs, 
To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 
What signifies his barren shine 
Of moral powers and reasou ? 
His English style, and gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen. 
The moral man he does refine. 
But near a word o' faith in 

That's right ihat day. 



20 BURNS'S POEBIS. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poisoned nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word of God, 

And meek and mim has viewed it. 
While Common Sense has taen the road. 

And alf, and up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast that day. 
Wee Miller, neist, the guard relieves, 

And orthodoxy raibles. 
Though in his heart he weel believes. 

And thinks it auld wife's fables : 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So cannily he hums them ; , 

Although his eomal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him, 
At times that day. 
Now butl and ben the change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and thrang, and loud and lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' scripture. 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 
Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college. 
It kindles wit, it waukins lear. 

It bangs us fu' o' knowledge : 
Be't whisky- gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion, 

By night or day. 
The lads and lasses, blithely bent 

To mind baith soul and body. 
Sit round the table weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
» A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchiine. 



BUPvNS*S POEMS. 21 

On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk. 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

And forming assignations, 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
And echoes back return the shouts : 

Black Eussell is na spairin' ; 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow!* 

Wi* fright that day. 

A vast unbottomed boundless pit. 

Filled fu' o' lowing brimstane, 
Wha's raging fiame, and scorching heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whunstane I 
The hauf asleep start up wi' fear. 

And think they hear it roaring, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neighbour snoring 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories passed. 
And how they crowded to the yill. 

When they were a' dismissed ;. 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups. 

Am an g the furms and benches, 
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

And dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 

And sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace. 

From side to side they bother, 

* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



22 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 
And gies them't like a tether, 
Fu' lang that day. 

Waesuck's for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naethingi 
Sma' need has he to say a gTace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Oh wives, be mindfu' I ance yoursel', 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
And dinna for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink. 

They're a' in famous tmae 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this day converts, 

0' sinners and o' lasses I 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane 

As soft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fu' o' love divine ; 

There's some are fu' o' brandy; 
And mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 
Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penned ; 
Even ministers, they hae been kenned, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing wind, at times to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



BURNS S POEMS. ^16 

But this that I am gaim to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin city; 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 
The clachan yill had made me canty, 
1 was na fu', but just had plenty ; 
I stachered whyles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches : 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenned aye 

Frae ghaists and witches. 
The rismg moon began to glower. 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns wi' a' my power 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'dna tell. 
I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill. 

To keep me sicker; 
Though leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 
I there wi' sometliing did forgather, 
That put me in a,n eerie switiier; 
"Ad awfu' scythe, out owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling haug ; • 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large andlang. 
Its stature seemed lang Scotch ells twa, 
J'he queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wame it had aval 

And then its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp, as sma' 

As cheeks o' branks I 
" Guid-een," quo' I ; '* friend ! hae ye boei" 

mawin'. 
When ither folk are busy sawin' ?"» 

This rencounter happened in seed-time, in I7S5. 



24 BURNS'S POEMS. 

It seemed to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend ! whare ye gauu ? 

Will ye gae back ?" 

It spak right howe: '^ My name is Death ; 
But be no fleyed." Quoth I, " Guid, faith, 
Ye're may be come to stop my breath ; 

But tent me, billie ; 
"I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully!" 

*' Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no designed to try its mettle ! 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be misleared; 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle, 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel," says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, and say we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat. 

Come, gie's your news ; 
This while* ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

" Ay, ay !" quo* he, and shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed, 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled. 
Sin' I was to the butchering bred; 
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's^ taen up the trade, 

And faith he'll waur me. 

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 

b This gentleman, Doctor Hornbook, is professionally a 
brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by intu- 
ition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, an(? 
physician. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 25 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan I 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan* 

And ither chaps, 
The weans hand out their fingers, laughin', 

And pouk my hips. 

*' See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierced mony a gallant heai-t : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith na worth a f— t, 

Damned haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, na farther gane, 

I threw a noble dart at ane : 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just played dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart 

0' a kail-runt. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

0' hard whin-rocL 

'" Even them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'er had kenned it, 
Just in a kail-blade and send it ; 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease and what wiU mend it, 

At ance he tells't. 

• Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



26 BURNS'S POEMS. 

" And tlien o' doctor's saws and wliittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae : 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A, B, C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina o' beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus o' capons : 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings. 

Distilled 2Jcr se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,'* 
Quoth I, " If that the news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward, whare gowans grew 

Sae white and bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh : 

They'll ruin Johnny !" 

The creature grained an eldritch laugh, 
And says, '' Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be tilled enough, 

Tak ye nafear; 
They'll a' be trenched wi' mony'a sheugh, 

In twa-three year. 

'' Where I killed ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' bluid, or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to take my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill, 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

* The gr-aye-digger. 



BUIINS'S POEMS. 27 

" An honest wabster to bis trade, 

Whase wive's twa nieves were scarce weel-brod. 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her bead, 

When it was sa?r ; 
The wife slade cannie to ber bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

" A coimtra laii'd bad taen tbe batts, 
Or some curmurring in bis guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

And pays bim well: 
Tbe lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird bimsel'. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kenned ber name, 
Some ill-brewn drink bad boved ber wanie ; 
Sbe trusts bersel', to bide tbe sbame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn set ber aff to ber lang bame, 

To bide it tbere. 

" Tbatfs just a swatcli o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes be on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me 0' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' bis damned dirt. 

" But, bark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail tbe self-conceiied Scot 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Niest time we meet, I wad a groat, 

He gets bis fairin'l" 

But just as be began to tell, 

The auld kirk-haramer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont tbe twal, 

Which raised us baith : 
J took the way that pleased mysel'. 

And sae did Death. 



28 EURNS'S POEMS. 

it. 

THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush ; 

The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, 

Or deep-tonedplovers, gray, wild whistling o'er the hill; 

Shall he, nursed in the peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early poverty to hardship steeled, 

And trained to arms in stern misfortune's field, 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some patron's generous care he trace. 

Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name. 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 

With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 

'Twas when the stacks get on then* winter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming winter's biting frosty breath : 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils. 
Unnumbered buds and flowers, delicious spoils. 
Sealed up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doomed by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils, smoored wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on every side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feathered field mates, bound by nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
( What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
And execxates man's savage^ ruthless deeds !) 



BURNS'S POEMS. 29 

Nae mail the flower in field or meadow springs ; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 

Except, perhaps, the rohin's whistling glee. 

Proud o' the height o' some hit hauf-lang tree ; 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide hlaze, 

While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 

*Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh o' Ayr, 

By whim inspired, or haply pressed wi' care, 

He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 

And down by Simpson's* wheeled the left about. 

(Whether impelled by all-directing fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether wrapt in meditation high. 

He wandered out he knew not where nor why.) 

The drowsy Dungeon -clock^ had numbered two, 

And Wallace towerb had sworn the fact was true; 

The tide-swoln frith, with sullen sounding roar, 

Through the still night dashed hoarse alongthe shore ; 

All else was hushed as nature's closed e'e ; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree : 

The chilly frost beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream : 

When lo ! on either hand the listening bard. 

The clanging sugh of whistling winds he heard ; 

Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air. 

Swift as the gos*^ drives on the wheeling hare ; 

Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape upreai-s, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers. 

Our warlock rhymer instantly descried. 

The sprites that o'er the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That bards are second- sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo o' the spiritual folk ; 

Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a' they can explain them, 

And even the very deils they brawly ken them.) 

Auld Brig appeared o' ancient Pictish race, 

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

b The two steeples. 

^ The goshavrk, or falcon. 



30 BURNS S POEMS. 

He seemed as he wi' time had warsled latig, 
Yet, toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanced his new-come neebour took his e'e, 
And e'en a vexed and angry heart had he; 
Wr thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid e'en : 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Though faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see, 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

KEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scantie sense ; 
Will your poor narrow footpath o' a street. 
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruined, formless bulk o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time? 
There's men o' taste wad tak the Ducat stream,* 
Though they should cast the very sark and swIdi, 
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk! puffed up wi' windy pride, 
This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide ; 
And though wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn. 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued- a'-d ay rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 31 

V/lien from tlie liills, where springs the bra\Yling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, 
Or haunted Garpal"" draws his feeble source, 
Aroused by blustering winds and spotting ihowes, 
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate; 
And from Glenbuck^ down to the Rotten-key,*' 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthened tumbhng sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the juralie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson, sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That architecture's noble art is lost 

NEW EKIG. 

Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! 
The Lord bethankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist- alluring edifices, 
Hanging, with threatening jut, like precipices ; 
O'er- arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors in nameless sculpture dressed, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblessed; 
Forms,like some bedlam-statuary's dream, 
The erased creations of misguided whim; 
Forms might be worshipped on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free. 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air or sea ; 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion; 
Fancies tha,t our good brugh denies protection. 
And sot)n may they exph*e, unblessed with resurrection. 

* The banks of Garpal water Is one of the few places in 
tlie west of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beini:s, 
known by the name of " ghaists," still continuei pertina- 
ciously to inhabit. 

b The source of the river Ayr. 

*^ A small landing-place above the larje key. 



32 , BURNS'S POEMS. 

AULD BRIG. 

Oh, ye, my dear-remembered ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feehngs I 
Ye worthy proveses and mony a bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye : 
Ye dainty deacons, and ye douce conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly councils wha hae blessed this town ; 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
(And what would now be strange) ye godly writers ! 
A' ye douce folk I've born aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what wad ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base degenerate race ! 
Nae langer reverend men, their country's glory. 
In plain braid Scots hand forth a plain braid story ! 
Nae langer thrifty citizens, and douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The herriment and ruin of the country : 
Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wha waste you weel-hained gear on damned new brigs 
and harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said enow, 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 

Corbies and clergy are a shot right kittle : 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' magistrates might weel be spared; 

To liken them to your auld-warl* squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. ^ 

In Ayr, wag- wits nae mair can hae a handle 

To mouth '*a citizen," a term o' scandal: 

Nae mair the council waddles down the street, 

In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops and raisins^ 

Or gathered liberal views in bonds and seisins. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 33 

If haply knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them wi' a ^immer o' his lamp, 
And would to common-sense for ance betrayed them, 
Plain, dull stupidity stept kindly inJ;o aid them. 

What farther clishmaclaver miglij been said. 
What bloody wars, if sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell : but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appeared in order bright; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced. 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced: 
They footed o'er the watery glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
Oh, had M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When through his dear strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage. 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 
And ev'nhis matchless hand with finer touch inspired I 
No guess could tell what instrument appeared, 
But all the soul of music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody poured moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crowned, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female beauty, hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then crowned with flowery hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid -beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreathed with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next followed Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild- woody coverts hide ; 

^ A well knovi^n performer of .-cottis'n music on the violin. 
D 



34 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Benevolence, witli mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from tBe towers of Stair ; 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catr|ne, their long-loved abode : 
Last, wbite-robed^Peace, crowned with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling 
wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 

*' For sense, they little owe to frugal Heaven, 
To please the mob they hide the little given.'' 

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw, 

And pour your creeshie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw 

Of a' denominations ; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a', 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 

And pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Cursed Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggy Lauder,* 
But Oliphant aft made her yell. 

And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her I 
He'll clap a shaugan on. her tail. 

And set the bairns to daub her 
Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn King David owre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O* double verse come gie us four, 

And skirl up the Bangor: 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the ad- 
mission oithe late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to the Laigh 
Kirk. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 35 

TJiis clay the Kirk kicks np a stoure, 
Nae mair tlie knaves shall wrang her, 

For Heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her ., 

Wi' pith this day. 

Come ! let a proper text he read, 

And touch it aff with vigour, 
How graceless Ham* leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a Nigger ; 
Or Phineasb drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re -abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah,' the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed. 

And bind him down wi' caution ; 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion : 
And gie him o'er the flock to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin'. 

Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock! cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' scanty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapsfu' large o' gospel kail 

Shall find thy crib in plenty, 
And runts o' gTace, the pick and wale, 

No gien by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep. 

Like baby-clouts a-drying: 
Come ! screw the pegs wi' tuneful cheep, 

And o 'ej; the thairms be trying ; 

Genesis, ix. ^ Numbers, xxv. ' Exodus, iv. 



36 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 
And a' like lamb-tails flying 

Fu' fast this day. 

Lang Patronage wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shored the Kirk's undoin', 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin'; 
And, like a godly, elect bairn, 

He*s waled us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair. 

But steek your gab for ever; 
Or try the wicked town o' Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever : , 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

You may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

And turn a carpet weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones; 
And Horuie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons ; 
And aye he catched the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodox's faes, 

She's swingin' through the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tailed cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty; 
And Common-Sense is gaun, she says. 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 37 

But there's Morality him sel' 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tilher yell, 

Between his twa companions I 
See how she peels the skin and fell, 

As ane were peeling onions ! 
Now, there ! they're packed aff to hell 

And banished onr dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 

Oh, happy day i rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here naemair find quarter:' 
M'Kinlay, Russell, are the boys 

That heresy can torture: 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 

Come ! bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's for a conclusion. 
To every New Light* mother's son. 

From this time forth confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and every skin, 

Well rin them aff in fusion, 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, 

On his text, Malachi, chap. iv. verse 2 : " And they shall 
go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall." 
Eight, sir! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 
God knows, an unco calf! 

* New Lights is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, 
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, 
has defended so strenuously. 



38 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a stirki 

But if the lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it every heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot ? 

Though when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been, that you may wear 

A noble head o' horns! 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowt. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte ! 

And when you're numbered wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head: 

" Here lies a famous bullock 1" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O prince ! O chief of many throned powers, 
That led the embattled seraphim to war. 

Milton. 

THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Homie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern gium and sootie. 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches I 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 39 

Great is thy power, and great thy fame, 
Far kenned and noted is thy name; 
And though yon lowan heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith, thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners trying ; 
Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyiug, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom prying, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruined castles, gray. 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', 

Wi' eerie drone ! 
Or, rustlin', through the boortrees comin', 

Wi' heavy groan ! 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you,, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the loch ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stoor, quaick ! quaick ! 

Amang the springs 
Away ye squattered like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and withered hags. 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 



40 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Tiiey skim the muirs and dizzy crags 

Wr wicked speed, 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 
Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse 
On young guidman, fond, keen, and crouse ; 
When the best wark-loom i' the house 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
And float the jinglin icy board, 
When water-kelpies haunt the foord 

By your direction. 
And 'nighted travellers are allured 

To their destruction. 
And aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; 
The bleezin', cursed, mischievous monkeys, 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When mason's mystic work and grip 
In storms and tempests raise ye up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. 

Or, strange to tell I 
The youngest brither ye wad whup 

Aff straight to hell I 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were paired, 
And a' the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird, 

In shady bower: 



BURNS'S POEMS. 41 

Then you, ye aiild sneck-drawin' dog 

Ye cam to Paradise incog., 

And played on man a cursed bogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak him out of house and hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava'. 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce^ 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin' 

To your black pit; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin*, 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben! 
Oh, wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 
Ye aiblins might, I dinna ken, 

Still hae a stake! 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

EVn for your sake ! 

• Vide Milton, Book VI. 



42 BURNS'S POEMS. 

DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU* TALE. 

As Mailie and her lambs, thegitlier, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon the cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie. 
When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 

Wi glowrin' een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand endit, 
But, waes my heart! he cou'dna mend it 9 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak : 

" thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case I 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a, sheep, 
Oh ! bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' h'emp or hair, 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
And let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs and packs o' woo. 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
And aye was guid to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 
" Oh, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butcher's knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill. 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' : 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn. 

" And may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 

* A neighbour herd-callan. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 43 

To slink tlirougli slaps, and reave and steal 

At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 

So may they, like their great forbears, 

For mony a year come through the sheers: 

So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 

And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins in his breast; 
And warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content %i' yowes at hame ; 
And no to rin and wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wr ony blastit, moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to moop and mail 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I leave my blessin' wi' you baith ; 
And when you think upon your mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him bum this cursed tether , 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turned her head, 
And closed her een amang the dead. 

POOR mailie's elegy. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; 
Om* bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie*s dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warld's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 



44 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed ; 

He's lost a friend and neebour dear, 
In Mailie dead. 

Through a* the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him; 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' se#se, 
And could behave hersel' wi' mense ; 
I'll sa/t, she never brak a fence 

Through thievish greed : 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 
Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image, in her yowe. 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 
She was nae get o' muirland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips ; 
For her forbears wer6 brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed I 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 
Wae worth the man who first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing, a rape I 
It maks guid fellows grin and gape 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
And Kobin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 
Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on A.yr your chanters tune, 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Kobin's reed ; 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead ! < 



BURNS'S POEMS. 45 

TO JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul 

Sweetener of life, and solder of society ! 

I owe thee much. Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, pawkie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
You surely hae some warlock-hrief 

■ Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon. 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye*ve cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you, 
And eveiy ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's turned you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And m her freaks, on every feature, * 

She's wrote the man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit of rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisui-e-momeut's time 

To heai' what's comin ? 

Some rhyme a neeboui-'s name to lash ; 

Some rhyme (vain thought I) for needfu' cash : 

Some rhyme to court the countra clash ; 

And raise a din; 
For me, an aim I never fash : 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat, 



46 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And damned my fortune to the groat ; 

But, in re quit, 
Has blessed me wi' a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the more I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, •' Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest maii, tak tent ! 

'Ye'U shaw your folly. 

"There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 
Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 
And teach the lonely heights andhowes 

My rustic sang. 
I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 
But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and hale ; 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er side? , 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 
This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy-land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right. 
Make hours like liiinutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 47 

The magic wand then let ns wield ; 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speeled, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hoastin', hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin'. 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
And fareweel cheerful tankards foamin'. 

And social noise ; 
And farewell, dear, deluding woman. 

The joy o' joys! 

Oh, Life ! how pleasant in thy morning I 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning; 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like school-boys at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near 

Amang the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spat. 
For which they never toiled nor swat; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat. 

But care or pain; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune chase; 

Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 

Through fair, through foul, they urge the race. 

And seize the prey: 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And ithers, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin', 



48 BURNS'S POEMS. 

To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zigzag on ; 
Till cursed wi' age, obsctire and starvin', 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining; 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, "Ye Powers!" and warm implore, 

" Though I should wander terra o'er 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 
" Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour: 
And yill and whiskey gie to cairds 

Until they scoaner. 
" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledgered cit, 

In cent, per cent. : 
But gie me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 
"While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down owre my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
Aslang's the Muses dinna fail. 

To say the gra«e." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may: 
Sworn foe to son-ow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 



BtJRNS'S POE3IS. 49 

Oh ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-bloocled, calm, and cool. 
Compared wi' you, oh fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke. 

Nae harebrained, sentimental traces. 
In your unlettered, nameless faces ! 
In mioso trills and graces. 

Ye never stray. 
But, (jravissimo, solemn basses. 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Nae ferly though ye do despise, 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin' squad ; 
I see you upward cast your eyes, 

Ye ken the road. 

Whilst I, but I shall baud me there, 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where ; 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang. 
Content, with you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I ffanf?. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason, 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 

On reading in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with 
the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner 
dropped asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the 
birth-day levee ; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the 
following address. 

GuiD morning to your Majesty I 
May Heaven augment your blisses 

On every new birtb-day ye see, 
An humble poet wishes I * 



50 BURNS*S POEMS. 

My bardsliip here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 
I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By inony a lord and lady ! 
" God save the King !" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye : 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turned and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 
For met before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
Sae, nae reflection on your grace. 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 
'Tis very true, my sovereign king, 

My skill may well be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding. 

And downa be disputed: 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right refi, and clouted ; 
And now the third part o' the string, 

And less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 
Far be't frae me that I asphe. 

To blame your legislation ; 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye've trusted 'ministration 
To chaps, wh a in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill their station 

' Than courts yon day. 



BITRNS'S POEMS. 51 

And now ye've given auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester : 
For me, thank God ! my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster; 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

r the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(And Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

And lessen a' your charges ; • 
But, God sake I let nae saving lit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

And boats this day. 

Adieu, my liege ! may Freedom geek 

Beneatii your high protection: 
And may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection. 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

''In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect. 
My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty most excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie baimtime, Heaven has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye ? 
In bliss, tni fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. . 

For you, young potentate of Wales, 

1 tell your highness fairlyf 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely : 



i2 BURNS S POEMS. 

But some clay ye may gnaw your nails, 

And curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clishmaclaver: 
There, him^ at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,b 

He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 

For you, right reverend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeves sweeter, 
Although a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer ! 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug. 

Or, troth 1 ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. ^ 

Young, royal Tarry 'Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley,^ stem and stern, 

Weel rigged for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then heave abroad your grapple-aim, 

And, large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heaven mak you guid as weel as braw. 

And gie you lads a-plenty ! 

* King Henry V. ^ 

b Sir John Fal staff. See Shakspeare's Henry IV. 
•^ Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal 
ailur's amour. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 53 

But sneer na Britisli boys awa, 

For kings ai'e unco scant aye ; 
And German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want aye. 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet; 
But ere the course of life be through, 

It may be bitter sautet : 
And I hae seen their coggie fu', 

That yet hae tarrow*t at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
And hungered maukin taen her way 

To kail-yards green, 
viVhile faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she had been. 

The thresher's weary flinging-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had closed his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle cheek 

I sat, and e'ed the spewin' reek, 

That filled, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a 
digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol . ii. of Macpherson's 
translation. 



54 BURNS'S POEMS. 

A' in this motty, misty clime, 

I backward mused on wasted time; ^ 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

And done ilae thing, 
But stringing blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, • 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account ; 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, muttering, " Blockhead ! coof !" 
And heaved on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, wad be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath : 

When, click 1 the string the sneck did draw j 
And jee! the door gaed to the wa', 
Andjby my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezing bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, ^ 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 

The infant aith, half- formed, was crushed : 

I glowered as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest Worth, she blushed, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
And come to stop those reckless vows 

Wad soon been broken. 

A " hairbrained, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 55 

A wildly- witty, rustic grace, 

Shone full upon ber; 
Her eye, even turned on empty space, 

Beamed keen wi' honour. 
Down flowed her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen; 
And sic a leg! my honnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 
Her mantle large, o' greenish hu6. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seemed, to my astonished view, 

A weel-known land. 

Here rivers in the sea were lost, 

There, mountains to the skies were tossed ; 

Here, tumbling billows marked the coast, 

Wi' surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 
Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods, 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And mony a lesser torrent scuds, 

Wi' seemin' roar. 
Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough reai-ed her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polished grace. 

By stately tower or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air. 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern; 
Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare, 

Wi' feature stern. 



56 BUIINS'S POEMS. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, ^ 

To see a race* heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows : 
While back recoiling seemed to reel 
Their southern foes. 
His country's saviour,^ mark him well ; 
Bold Eichardton's** heroic swell; 
The chief on Sark,"* who glorious fell, 

In high command; 
And he, whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 
There, where a sceptred, Pictish" shade, 
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid, 
I marked a martial race, pourtrayed 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featured, undismayed, 

They strode along. 
Through many a wild romantic grove/ 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 
With deep-struck, reverential awe/ 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
» The Wallaces, 
b William Wallace. 

*^ Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal 
preserver of Scottish independence. 

d Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command 
under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the 
banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was 
principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid va- 
lour of the gallant Laird of Cragie, who died of his wounds 
after the action. 

'^ Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle 
is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near 
the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his 
burial-place is still shown, 
f Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice Cierk. 
s Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Pro- 
fessor Stewart. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 57 

To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 

This, all its source and end to draw, 
That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward*^ I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who called on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonished stare, 
I viewed the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When, with an elder sister's air, 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard, 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate as hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

. Harmoniously, 
As arts and arms they understand. 
Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them share, ' 
Some fii'e the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart; 
Some teach the bard, a darlmg care, 

The timeful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 

* Colonel Fullarton. 



58 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Or, 'mid the venal senate^s roar, 

They sightless stand. 

To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

. " And when the bard or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence FuUarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspiring tongue; 
Hence sweet, harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays ;' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 
" To lower orders are assigned 
The humbler ranks of human-kind : 
The rustic bard, the labouring hind. 

The artizan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclined. 

The various man. 
" When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threatening storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage - skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd -train, 

Blithe o'er the hill. 
" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the labourer's weary toil 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 
" Some bounded to a district- space. 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryo tic trace 

Of rustic bard! 
And careful note each opening grace, 

A guide and guard. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 59 

" Of these am I : Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling power ; 
I marked thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze. 

Fond, on thy little early ways, 

Thy rudely-carolled, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes. 
Filled at the simple, artless lays, 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep, green-mantled earth, 
Warm cherished every floweret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In every grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

"When ripened fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reapers* rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

'' When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong. 
Keen-shivering, shot thy nerve along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

The adored name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 



r>0 t BURNS*S POEMS. 

Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven! 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 
"I taught thy manners painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains. 

Thy fame extends; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 
"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow, 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the mpving flow 

Warm on the heart. 
" Yet all beneath the unrivalled rose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Though large the forest monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 
" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

-Nor king's regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic bard. 
" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
Preserve the dignity of man 

With soul erect ! 
And trust, the universal plan 

With all protect. 

" And wear thou this," she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polished leaves and berries red 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light avray. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 61 

ADDRESS 

TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The rigid righteous is a fool, 

The rigid wise anither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some piles o' caff in ; 
bau ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o* daffin. 

Solomon — Eccles. vii. IS. 

YE wha are sae guid yoursei', 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's faults and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core ! 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce wisdom's door, 

For glaiket follj^s portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Wad here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings, and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ ? 
Discoufit what scant occasion gave. 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hidin'. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a whallop. 
What ragiugs must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 



62 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 
Right on ye scud your sea-way, 

But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 
It maks an unco lee-way. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

A' joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking; 
' O wad they stay to calculate 

The eternal consequences; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied up in godly laces, 
t Before you gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination : 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman; 
Though they may gang a kennin wraug, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each cord, its various tone. 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But ken na what's resisted. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 63 

TAM SAMSON'S" ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Pope, 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 
Or great M'Kinlay'' thrawn his heel ? 
Or Eobinson^ again grown weel, 

To preach and read ? 
" Na, waur than a' 1" cries ilka chiel, 

" Tarn Samson's dead." 

Kilmarnock iang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane : 

Tam Samson's dead. 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in wofu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel 

Like ony bead; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel: 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When winter mufiles up his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead I 

He was the king o' a' the core 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 

^ When this worthy old sportsman went outlast muir-fowl 
season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last 
of his fields," and expressed an ardent wish to die and be 
buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his 
elegy and epitaph. 

b A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. 
Vide the " Ordination," stanza 2. 

^ Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who 
was at that time ailing. For him see also the " Ordination," 
stanza 9. 



64 JiURNS'S POEMS. 

Or up tlie rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 

But now lie lags on death's hog-score : 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately saumont sail, 
And trouts be-dropped wi' crimson hail, 
And eels, weei kenned for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

Kejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 

Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' br,aw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa' : 

Tam Samson's dead. 

That wofu' morn be ever mourned 
Saw him in shooting-graith adorned, 
While pointers round impatient burned, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, oh ! he gaed, and ne'er returned : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters. 
In vain the burns come down like waters. 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auld wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead I 
Owre monie a weary hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behint him jumpit, 

Wr deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reeled his wonted bottle-swagger. 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

wr weel- aimed heed ; 
" Lord, fiveT' he cried, and owre did stagger 

Tam Samson's dead! 



BURNS'S POE3IS. 65 

Ilk hoary hunter mourned a brither; 
Ilk sportsman-youth bemoan ecf a father; 
Yon auld gray stone, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
\Yhare Bums has wrote in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

There low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu muirfowl bigs her nest 

To hatch and breed : 
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his memory crave 

0' pouther and lead ; 
Till echo answers frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

Heaven rest his saul, where'er he be I 
Is the wish o' mony mae than me; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what* rem ead ? 
Ae social honest man want we: 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

THE EPITAPH. 

Tarn Samson's weel-woni clay here lies, 

Ye canting zealots spare him ! 
If honest worth in heaven rise. 

Yell mend or ye win near hun. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, fame ! and canter like a filly 

Through a' the streets and.neuks o' Killie,* 

Tell every social, honest billie, 

To cease his grieving ; 
For yet, unscaithed by death's gleg gullie, 

Tarn Samson's living! 

■ Kilmarnock, 
F 



66 BURNS'S POEMS. 

HALLOWEEN.^ 

The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough 
understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted 
with the manners and traditions of the country where the 
scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of the 
principal charms and spells of that night, so big with 
prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The 
passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the 
history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations ; and it maybe some entertainment to a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in 
our own. 

Yes I let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasuiRS of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 

Upon that night, when faiiies light, 

On Cassilis Downans^ dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance : 
Or for Cole an the rout is taen, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, up the Cove,'' to stray and rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night. 

Amang the honnie winding banks, 

Where Doon rins wimpling clear, 
Where Bruce^ ance ruled the martial ranks, 

And shook the Carrick spear, 

* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other 
mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful mid- 
night errands ; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, 
are said, on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. 

«> Certain little romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neigh- 
bourhood of the ancient seat of the earls of Cassilis. 

•^ A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of 
Colean, which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

^ The lamous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, 
the great deliverer of his country, were earls of Carrick. 



BURNS'S POEMS. ^7 

Some merry, friendly, coiintra folks, 

Together did coruvene, 
To burn their nits, and piV their stocks, 

And hand their Halloween, 

Fn' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Well knotted on their garten. 
Some nnco blate, and some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin', 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then first and foremost through the,kail. 

Their stocks* maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een, and grape and wale. 

For muckle anes, and straught anes. 
Poor haverel Will fell aff the drift, 

And wandered through the bow-kail, 
An^ pu'd, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like the sow- tail, 

Sae bowed that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The very wee things, toddlin', rin 

Wr stocks out-owre their shouther ; 



* The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each'a stock, 
or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes 
shut, and pull the first they meet with ; its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the 
object of all their spells, the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher or fortune ; and 
the taste. of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is 
indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the 
stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, 
are placed somewhere above the head of the door.; and the 
Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the 
house, are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the 
names in question. 



G^ BURNS'S POEMS. 

And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' canny care they've placed them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae mang them a', 

To pn' their stalks o' corn ; * 
But Eab slips out, and jinks about 

Behind the rnuckle thorn : 
He gripped Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirled a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kuitlin i' the fause-house i» 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel -hoarded nits,*^ 

Are round and round divided; 
And monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided: 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side. 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start away wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentio*e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says into hersel' : 

* They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three several 
times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top- 
pickle, that is the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in 
question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. 

b When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being loo green 
or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes 
a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is most exposed to the wind : this he calls a fause- 
house 

® Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name tlie 
lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the 
fire ; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or sta't 
from beside one another, the course and issue of the couvL- 
ship will be. 



BURNS S POEMS. OD 

He bleezed owre lier, and she owre liim, 

As they wad never mair part ;■ 
'Till, fufl"! he started up th-e lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sau' heart, 
To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compared to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

Twas just the wav he wanted 
To be that night I 

Nell had the fause-house in her min'^ 

She pits herself and Kob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 
Nell's heart was dancing at the view ; 

She whispered Rob to leuk for't : 
Bob, stowlins, pried her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 
•• 
But Merran sat behind theu- backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell, 
She lea es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by liersel' : 
She through the yard the nearest taks, 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graipit for the banks, 

And in the blue -clue* throws then, * * 

Right fear't that night. 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions ; Steal out, ali alone, to the kiln, 
and, darkling, throw in the pot a clue of blue yarn -, wind 
il in a new clue off the old one ; and, towards the latter end, 
something will hold the thread. Demand, wha bauds ? that 
is, who holds ? An answer will be returned from the kiln-pot 
bj naming the Christian and surnamQ of your future spouse. 



70 BURNS 'S POEMS. 

And aye she win't, and aye she swat , 

I wat she made nae jaukin' : 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid Lord ! but she was quakin' I 
But whether 'twas the de'il himsel', 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me« grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple* at the glass 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie : 
She fuff' t her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vapourin', 
She noticed na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out through that night. 
" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How dare^ou try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune ; 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it; 
For mony a ane has gotten St fright, 

And lived and died dele ere t. 
On sic a night. 

"Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
T was a gilpie then I'm sure 

I was no past fifteen; 
The simmer had been cold and wat, 

And stuff was unco green ; 
And aye a rantin kirn we gat, 
And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 
* Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an 
apple before it ; and some traditions say, you should comb 
your hair, all the time : the face of your conjugal com- 
pauion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
your shoulder. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 71 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That lived in Aclimacalla; 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel. 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsel'. 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a* but nonsense : 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mangthe folk, 

Some time when nae ane see'd him. 
And try't that night. 

He marches through amang the stacks, 

Though he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

And haurls at his cm-pin : 
And every now and then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass. 

Come after me and draw thee, 
As fast this night." 

He whistled up Lord Lennox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Although his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fleyed and eerie: 

* Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp- 
seed, harrowing it with any thing you can convenient! y 
draw after you. Repeat, now and then, *' Hemp-seed I saw 
thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to bs 
my true-love, come after me and pu* thee." Look over 
your left shoulder, and you will see the person invoked, in 
the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " Come 
after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, 
"Come after me, and harrow thee." 



72 BURNS S POEMS. 

Till presently he hears a squeak, 

And then a grane and gruntle : 
He by his shouther gae %keek, 

And tumbled wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 
He roared a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Cravv, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted through them a*, 

And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night. 
Meg fain wad to the bam hae gane 

To win three wechts o' naething ;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She plit but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn slie sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
That vera night. 
She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

And owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', i 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A rattan rattled up the wa'. 

And she cried, " Lord preserve her I" 
And ran through midden-hole and a', 

And prayed wi' zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

* This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and 
alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking 
them off the hinges if possible, for there is danger that the 
being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some 
miscliief. Tlien take that instrument used in winnowing the 
corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht, and go 
through all the attitudes of letting dovs-n corn against the 
wind. Repeat it three times : and the third time an appu- > 
rition will pass through the barni in at the windy door and 
o-ut at the other, having both the figure in question, and the ap- 
pearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life. 



BURNS S POEMS. ( O 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sail- advice ; 

They hecht liim some fine braw ane; 
It chanced the stack he. faddomed thrice* 

Was timmer propT for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black gi'ousome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam hanrlin' 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin' ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
She through the whins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn, ^ 

To dip her left sark sleeve in^ 

W^as bent that night. 
Whyles owre the linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it wimpled ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpled ; 
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cockit underneath the braes, 

Bdow the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon. 
The deil, or else au outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon : 

* Take anopportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, 
and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the 
last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your 
future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

b You go out, one or more, for this is is a social spell, to a 
south-running spring, or rivulet, where "three laitds' 
lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Co to bed in 
sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
Lie awake ; and, some time near midnight, an apparition, 
having the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. 



74 BURNS 'S POEMS. 

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; 

Near laverock-height she jumpit ; 
But missed a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the Ings sh«^plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And every tim^ gieat care is taen 

To see them duly changed. 
Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice. 

He heaved them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

Wr meny sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
And unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery. 
Till buttered so'ns,b wi' fragrant lunt, 

Sets a' their gabs a-steering; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careering 

Fu' blithe that night. 

* Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul water in 
another, and leave the third empty. Blindfold a person, 
and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged : he 
(or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matri- 
mony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the empty dish, 
it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at ah. It is 
repeated three times ; and every time the arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 

^ Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always 
the Halloween supper. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 75 

THE AULD FAEMER'S NEW- YEAR MORNING 
SALUTATION TO HIS MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPV OF CORN TO HAN- 
SEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A GCID New-year I wish thee, Maggie I 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy aiild baggie ! 
Though thou's howe-backit now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen Uke ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 
Though now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappled, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Anee in a day. 
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank. 
And set weerdown a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
And could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
• Like ony bhd. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my guid father's mere. 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. 

And fifty mark : 
Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

And thou was stark. 
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trotting wi' your minnie ; 
Though ye was trickle, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie. 
That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 



76 teURNS's POEMS. 

Though now ye dow but hoyte and hohble, 
And wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels and win', 
And ran them till they a' did wauble 

Far, far behin' I 

When thou and I were young and skeigh, 

And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigh, 

And tak the road, • 

Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an I was mellow. 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fallow, 

For pith and speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hallow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma droop-rumpled hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gart them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle 

0' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan'. 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn; 
Aft thee and I, in aucht hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turned sax rood beside our ban', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel-iilled brisket, 

Wi' pith and power, 
Till spritty knowes wad rairt and risket. 

And slipped owre. 

VvZh-^n frosts lay lang, and snows were deep, 
And threatened labour back to keep, 



BURNS'S P0E31S. 77 

I gied thy cog a wee bit heap, 

Aboon the timmer; 
I kenned my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never rested : 

The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; 

Thou never lap, and sten't and breasted, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hasted, 
^ Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nursed : 
They drew me thretten pund and twa, 

The vera warst. 

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
And wi' the weary warld fought ! 
And mony an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan'. 
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin', 
And thy auld days may end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years. thegither; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll lit thy tether 

To some hained rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

V7i' sma' fatigue. 



78 BURNS'S POEMS, 

TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 

KOVEMBER, 17S5. 

Wee, sleekit, cowering, timorous beastie ! 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hastie, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle. 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion, 
Has broken nature's social union. 
And justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me , thy poor earth-born companion. 

And fellow-mortal. 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve : 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live; 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma request: 
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave. 

And never miss't. 

Thy wee bit housie too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! 
And naething now to big a new ane 

O' foggage green ! 
And bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen I 
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
And weary winter coming fast, 
And cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter passed 

Out through thy cell. 
That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble : 
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter s sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauldl 



BURNS'S POEMS. 79 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a gley. 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blessed, compared wi' me : 
The present only toucheth thee ; 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forwai'd, though I canna see. 

I guess and fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? 

Shakspeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bower ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glower 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-darkening through the flaky shower, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While bums wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 

Wild eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

Listening the doors and winuocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle 

Beneath a scaur. 



80 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Ilk happiug birdj wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, 

And close thy e'e ? 

Even you on murdering errands toiled, 

Lone ii'om your savage homes exiled, 

The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cot spoiled, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phcebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Hose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole : 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust I 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost I 
Descend^ ye chilly smothering snows I 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows, 

See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand. 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er a land ! 

Even in the peaceful rural vale. 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered luxury, flattery by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

W^ith all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property extended wide, 

And eyes the simple rustic hind, 
Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind. 

Some coarser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 



BURNS S P0E3IS. M 

Vvhere, where is love's fond, tender throe, 

Vvith lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 

Is there, beneath love's noble name, 

Can harboiu', dai'k, the selfish aim, 
To bless himself alone ? 

Mark maiden innocence a prey 
To love-pretending snares; 

This boasted honour turns away, 

Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Eegardless of the tears, and unavailing prayers ! 

Perhaps, this hour, in misery's squalid nest. 

She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears sinks at the rockmg blast! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk on beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
"^^ Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 
Dl-satisfied keen Nature's clamorous CdYl, 

Stretched on his straw he lays himsfcli to sleep, 
While through the ragged roof and chmky wall. 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap I 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine. 

Where guilt and poor misfortune pine I 

Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 

But shall thy regal rage pursue 

The wretch, already crushed low 

By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in disti'ess; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss 1" 

I heard nae mair, for chanticleer 

Shook ofi" the pouthery snaw. 
And hailed the morning wi' a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind: 

Through all His works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



82 BURNS'S POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,* 

A BROTHER POET. 

January, 1784. 

While winds frae aflf Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin averse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla-lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less, 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shared ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Though we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na,"»> 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg ; 
The last o't, the worst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 

When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress I 
Yet then content could mak us blessed ; 
Even then sometimes we!d snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 

* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, the author 
of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect. 
^ Ramsay. , 



BURNS'S POEMS. 83 

The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 
What though like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where. 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet natm-e's charms, the hills and wood^, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
Wi' honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year: 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't. 
And sing't when we hae done. 
It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair : 
It's no in books, it's no in Jair, 

To mak us truly blessed: 
If happiness has not her seat, 

And centre in the breast ; 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blessed : 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang; 
The heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang. 
Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blessed than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 
As harrllv worth their while ? 



84 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Alas ! liow aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess! 
Eaith careless, and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit o' age to youth : 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'U get there, 
Ye'll find^nae ither where. 
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts, 
CTo say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flattery I detest,) 
This life has joys for you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part. 
And I my darling Jean : 

It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name ; 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame. 
Oh, all ye powers who rule above I 
Oh Thou, whose very self art love I 
Thou knowest my words sincere I 
The life-blood streaming through my heart. 
Or my more dear immortal part, 
is not more fondlv dear ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 85 

Wlien heart- corroding care aDcl grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea bricgs relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all- seeing. 

Oh, hear my fervent prayer! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blessed me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens. 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

Oh, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin', rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowerin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, aad jimp, 
And rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now. 
His sweaty wizened hide. 



86 BURNS'S POEMS. 

THE LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S 
AMOUR. 

Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself ! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe. 

Home. 

Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While oare-untroubled mortals sleep I 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonising thrill 

For ever bar returning peace I 

No idly-feigned poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lamenting claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe. Arcadian strains. 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith, the mutual flame, 

The oft-attested powers above; 
The promised father's tender name: 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown ! 
How have I wished for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone ? 

My sacred heart's exulting boast ! 
And ftoes she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 87 

Oh 1 can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part. 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ! 

Ye wmged hours that o'er us passed, 

Enraptured more, the more enjoyed. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast. 

My fondly-treasured thoughts employed. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Even every ray of hope destroyed, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warms the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long aiTay, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant 'western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harassed out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchmgs with the nightly thief: : 
Or, if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Eeigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Even day, all bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

Oh, thou bright queen! who o'er the expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway, 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observed us, fondly-wandering, stray ; 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark thy mutual kindling eye. 



88 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrauc« set I 

Scenes, never, never to return ; 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander through ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



Oppressed with grief, oppressed with earp, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
Oh life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sickening scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me through, 
Too justly I may fear I 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er, 
But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ; 
Even when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy means are plied. 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight. 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet every sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same. 
You, bustling and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless yet restless. 
Find every prospect vain. 



EURNS'S POEMS. 89 

How blessed the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his evening thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to Heaven on high. 
As wandering, meandering. 
He views the solemn sky. 
Than I, no lonely hermit placed, 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
.But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blessed ! 
He needs not, he heeds not 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 
Oh I enviable, early days, 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt, unknown ! 
How ill-exchanged for riper times. 
To feel the follies or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish . 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim-declining age. 



90 BURNS'S POEMS. 

THE COTTEB'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. Gray, 

My loved, my honoured, mucli-respected friend I 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end. 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
A h ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
The shortening winter- day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 
The blackening train o' crawls to their repose: 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes. 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward 
bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
The expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through. 
To meet their dad, wi' flitcherin' noise and glee. 
His wee-bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, 
His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun' ; 

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie riu 

A cannie errand to a neebour town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love spiirklin' in her e'e. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 91 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 
Or deposite her sair-worn penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters nieet. 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 
The parents, partial, e'e their hopefu' years ; 
Anticipation forward points the- view : 
The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command 
They younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
And ne'er, though out o' sight, to j auk and play: 
" And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway! 
And mind your duty duly morn and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
Theynever sought in vainthat sought the Lord aright.'* 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o* the same. 
Tells how a neebour lad came o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. , 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; - 
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 
Weel-pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless 
rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappin' youth, he taks the mother's eye: 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen; 
The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye : 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
But blate and faithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What maks the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave : 
Weelpleasedtothinkherbairn'srespectedlike the lave. 



92 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Oh liappy love ! where love like this is found I 
Oh heartfelt raptures ! hliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare: 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 
gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
A wretch I a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction 
wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, 
And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it guid ; 
^ The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
They round the ingle form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 
His lyart haifets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 
He wales a portion wi' judicious care; 
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn 
air. 



EUKNS'S POEMS. 93 

They chant their artless notes in simple giiise ; 
They tune their hearts, hy far the nohlest aim ; 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warhling measures rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or nohle Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared wi' these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Ahram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage, 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny! 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Jo^'s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire : 
Or other holy seers that 'tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Hea- 
ven's command. 

Then kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wiug,"* 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere 

* Pope's " \Yindsor Forest." 



94 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's every grace, except the heart 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their seyVeral way : 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for theirtittle ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From sceneslike these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of hum^n kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

Oh, Scotia ! my dear, my native soil. 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much -loved isle. 

Oh Thou ! who poured the patiiotic tide. 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 95 

Who dai*ed to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward 
Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard I 



WINTE R. 



The wintry west extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the bum comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* 

The joyless winter-day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
Th% leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme, 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are thy will I 
Then all I want, (oh, do thou gi-ant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 

■^ Dr. Young-. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

M DIRGE. 

When cliill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man, whose aged step 

Seemed weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrowed o'ei- with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ' 

Began the reverend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, pressed with care and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter sun • 

Twice forty times return; 
And every time has added proofs. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Oh, man ! while in thy early years. 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all their precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime I 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's laws, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

• Siipp'.Tted is his right: 



BURNS'S POEMS. 97 

But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap caressed; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly hlessed : 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 
Through weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shames 
And man, whose heaveu -erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man. 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil : 
And see his lordly fellow-worm, 

The poor petition spurn ; 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm yon haughty lordling's slave, 

By nature's law designed. 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man th-e will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ? 
Yet let not this too much my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This pai'tial view of human kind 

Is surely not the last. 



98 BURNS S POEMS. 

The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn. 

Oh, Death! the poor man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest : 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blessed relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



. A PKAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Oh, thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If J have wandered in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly in my breast 

Remonstrates I have done : 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And listening to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou ! All-good, for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have erred, 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 99 

STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
' Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 

Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between ; 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: 

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !" 
Fain promise never more to disobey; 
But, should my Author health again dispense. 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 
Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to temptation ran. 

Oh Thou, great Governor of all below ! 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea: 
With that controlling power assist e'en me. 
Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 
To rule their torrent in the allowed line : 
Oh, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! 



VERSES 

LEFT AT A friend's HOUSE, WHERE THE AUTHOR 
SLEPT ONE NIGHT. 

Oh Thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my prayer sincere! 

:LofC. 



100 BURNS'S POEMS. 

The lioary sire, the mortal stroke, 
Long, long be pleased to spare ! 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youths 
In manhood's dawning blush; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou knowest the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A family in heaven ! 



THE FIKST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns the guilty lore I 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride. 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 101 

But lie whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble, tossed 

Before the sweeping blast. 

For why? that God the good adore, 

Hath given them peace and rest, 
But hath decreed that wicked men 

Shall ne'er be truly blessed. 



A PRAYEE 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGDISU. 

Oh Thou Great Being I what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here below thee stands. 

All wretched and distressed ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. . 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears, '^' -^--vv. 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man iny soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their sta^ and dwelling-place. 



102 BTTRNS'S POEMS. 

Before the mountains heaved their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at thy command. 

That power which raised and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou givest the word : thy creature, man, 

Is id existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with,a flood thou takest them oiF 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flower, 

In beauty's pride arrayed ; 
But long ere night cut down, it lies 

All withered and decayed. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson- tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amaiig the stoure 

Thy slender stem; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 103 

Alas ! it's no thy neebour sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet I 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wr speckled breast, 
When upward- springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade. 
By love's simplicity betrayed. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is^he fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred I 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'eri 
• 
Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 



104 BtJRNS'S POEMS. 

By human pride or cunning driven, 
To misery's brink, 

Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven 
He, ruined, sink^ 

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate^ 
That fate is thine no distant date ; 
Stem ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crashed beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPEAHC, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April I, 1785. 
While briers and woodbines budding green, 
And pai tricks scraichin' loud at e'en, 
And morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin*, 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin^; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; ' 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 
There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addressed 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirled the heart-strings througl^ the breast, 

A' to the lifco 
I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What generous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark?" 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 105 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't ; 
Then a' that kenned him round declared 

He had ingine, 
That nane excelled it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 

And either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel', 

Or witty catches, 
*Tween Inverness and Teviotd^e, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, 

Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back, 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell; 

Though rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel'. 

Does weel enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like by chance. 
And hae to learning nae pretence. 
Yet, what the matter ! 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
And say*, '' How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang ?" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns and stools, 



106 BURNS'S POEMS. 

If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers 
A set o* dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek 1 
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then though I drudge through dub and mire^ 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart 
Oh for a spunk o* Allan's glee, 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it ! 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow. 
Though real friends I believe are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fu', 

Pse no insist ; 
But gif ye want a friend that's tru^, 

I'm on your list. 
I winna blaw about mysel' ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 
But friends and folk that like me well 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Though I maun own, as mony still 

As far abuse me. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather. 
And hae a swap o* rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 107 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart; 
And, faith ! we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 
Aw a' ye selfish warldly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, 
Even love and frindship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 
But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

"Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers I 
But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissie, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whistle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor. 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Foijesket sair, wi' weary legs. 
Battling the corn out-owre the rigs. 
Or dealing through amang the naigs 

Their ten hours' bite. 
My awkward muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na' write. 



108 BURNS'S POEMS. 

The tapetless, ramfeezled hizzie, 
She's saft at hest, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, "Ye ken we've been sae busy, 

This month and mair, 
That, trouth! my head is grown right dizzie. 

And something sair." 

Her dowflF excuses pat me mad : 
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad! 
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night, 
So dinna ye affront your trade, , 

But rhyme it right. 

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts. 
Though mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

And thank him kindly ?" 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

And down gaed stumpie in the ink : 

Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
And if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it !" 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean alF-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp. 
Though fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your muirland hai-p 

Wi' gleesome touch ; 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp : 

She's but a bitch ! 

She's gien me mony a jirt and fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 109 

But by the Lord, though I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

As laug's I dow ! 
Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upon the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Fraeyearto year; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 
Do ye envy the city gent., 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent, 

And muckle wame. 
In some bit brugh to represent, 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ? 
Oh Thou wha gies us each good gift I 
Gie me o* wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me if thou please, adrift. 

Through Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride ! 
Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich and great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heaven ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 
For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began : 
" The social^ friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
*Tis he fulfils ^reat nature's plan, 

And none but he I" 



110 BURNS*S POEMS. 

Oh, mandate glorious and divine ! 
, The followers o' the ragged Nine, 

Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 
Though here they scrape, and squeeze, and gro 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl. 

May shun the light. 
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 
I GAT your letter, winsome Wtilie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie. 
Though I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

And unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. 

Your flatterin' strain. 
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
Isud be laith to think ye hinted 
ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Though in sic phraisin' terms ye've penned it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 
My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dsfi'e a hope to speel, 
Wi* Allan, or wi* Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 



BURNS'S POEMS. Ill 

(Oh Fergusson! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nhurgh gentry ; 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stowed his pantry I) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lassies gie my heart a screed, 

As wb^^les they're like to be my dead, 

fOh sad disease !j 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila, now, may fudge fu' fain. 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays. 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her we el-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his whUe, 
To set her name in measured style; 
She lay like some unkenned-of-isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whar wild-meeting oceans boil 

Be south Magellan. 

Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

The Ulissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

And cock your crest. 
Well gar our streams and burnies shins 

Up wi' the best I ^ 

We'll sing auld Coila' s plains and fells, 
Her moors red- brown wi' heather bells. 



112 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 
Where glorious Wallace 

Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod. 

Or glorious died ! 
Oh ! sweet are Coila's haughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While through the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry! 
Even winter bleak has chaims to me 
When winds rave through, the naked tree ; 
Or frost on hills of OchUtree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, 

Darkening the day ! 
Oh nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts, hae charms I 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 
The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' he learned to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander. 

And no think lang; 
Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder 

A he art- felt sang ! 

The warldly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive, 

Bum owre their treasur«. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 113 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing britherl" 
We've been owre lang unkenned to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Eobert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean, 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but caUans 

At grammer, logic, and sic talents, 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gae. 
But spak their thoughts in plain brad Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewing, 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This passed for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 
I 



114 BUilNS's POEMS. 

Some herds, well learned iipo' the beukj 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-comin*, to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied, it was affirmed ; 
The herds and hirsels were alarmed: 
' The reverend grey-beards raved and stoimed, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were informed 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 

Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks, 

And mony a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hanged and brunt 

This game was played in mony lands, 
And Auld-Light caddies bure sic hands. 
That, faith ! the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic biuidy pranks. 

But New-Light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruined stick-and-stowe. 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane placed ; 
And same their New-Light fair avow. 

Just quite barefaced. 

Nae doubt the Auld-Light flocks are bleatin' 
Their zealous herds are vexed and sweatin'; 
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some Auld-Light herds in neebour towns 



BURNS'S POEMS. 115 

Are mind't in tilings tliev ca* balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
And stay ae mouth among the moons, 

And see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 

And when the anld moon's gaun to lea them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
And when the New-Light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter;" 

But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF EGBERT 
RUISSEAUX. 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fashed him, 
Except the moment that they crushed him 
For soon as chance or fate had hushed 'em. 

Though e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lashed 'em 

And thought it sport. 

Though he was bred to kintra wark. 
And counted was baith right and stark. 
Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learned and dark, 
Ye roosed him than ! 



116 BURNS*S POEMS, 

THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 
RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch dressed ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

0' randie, gangrel bodies, 
Tn Poosie Nancy's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel braced wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm ; 

She blinket on her sodger : 
And aye he gies the touzie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumos dish. 

Ilk smack still did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip ; 
Then, staggering and swaggering, 
He roared this ditty up. 



Tune — " Soldier's Joy." 

I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 
, LaJ de dandle, &c. 



BURNS'S PO«MS. 117 

My 'prenticeship I passed where my leader^breatlied 

his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Ahram ; 
I served oiitmy trade when the gallant garae was played, 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batteries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now though I must beg with a wooden arm and leg. 
And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, ray bottle and my callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

What though with hoary locks, I must stand the win- 
ter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home. 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
• While frighted rattons backward leuk. 

And seek the benmost bore : 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirled out " Encore I" 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And l^id the loud uproar. 



Tune — " Soldier Laddie." 
I once was a maid, though I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of the troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 



118 BUIV|fS*S POEMS. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy. 
Transported, was I with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
But the godly old chaplain left him in the hirch. 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventured, the soul, and I risked the body : 
'Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked, no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair; 
His rags regimental they fluttered so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &e. 
And now I have lived, I know not how long, 
And still I can join in a cup and a song; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't ua wha the chorus teuk. 

Between themselves they were sae busy : 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoitered up and made a face ; 
Then turned, and laid a smack on Grizzle, 

iSyne tuned his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 

Tune—"' Auld Sir Syraon." 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fu', 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 
He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 119 

My grannie she bought me a benk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent mistenk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 
For drink I would venture my neck, 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft, 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 
I ance was tied up like a stirk, 

For civniy swearing and qua^n* 
1 ance was abused in the kirk,' 

For touzling a lass i' my daffin. 
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 

Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 
There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court, 

A tumbler ca'd the premier. 
Observed ye, yon reverend lad 

Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 
He rails at our mountebank squad ; 

It's rivalship just i' the job. 
And now my conclusion I'll tell. 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 

Guid Lord 1 he's far dafter than I. 

BECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For mony a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
Put weary fa' the waefu' woodie I 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman : 

AlB. 

Tune — " Oh an ye were dead guidman." 
A Highland l^d my love was born. 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn, 
But he still wasfaithfu' to his clan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



120 BU^NS S POEMS. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from. Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banished him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown nay cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c». 

But, oh I they catched him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn, 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her sti'appin' limb and gaucy middle 

(He reached na higher) 
Had holed his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 121 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He crooned his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set oflPwi' allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune — '* Whistle o'er the lave o*t." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CH0P.US. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I played. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle owre the laye o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't, 
I am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 

And sun oursells about the dyke. 

And at our leisure, when ye like. 

We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms. 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a* sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave oit. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird. 

As well as poor gut-scraper; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard. 

And draws a roosty rapier: 



122 BURNS'S POEMS. 

He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Eelinquish her for ever. 

Wr ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And prayed for grace wi' ruefu^ face, 

And sae the quarrel ended : 
But though his little heart did grieve 

When round ihe tinkler pressed her, 
He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird addressed her: 

AIR. 

Tune — ** Clout the caudron." 
My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travelled round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation : 
I've taen the gold, I've been enrolled 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they searched, when off I marched 

To go and clout the caudron. 

I've taen the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that withered imp, 

Wi* a' his noise and caprin'. 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevailed ; the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk: 

* A kind of whisky, of high reputation, produced in a 
distillery so called. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 123 

Sir Violino, with an air 

That showed a man of spunk. 
Wished unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That played a (Jame a shavie, 
The fiddler raked her fore and aft, 

Ahint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wig.ht o' Homer's craft, 

Though limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpled up, and lap like daft. 

And shored them Dainty Davie 
0' boot that night. 
He was a care-defyingblade 

As ever Bacchus listed. 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever missed it. 
He had nae wish but to be glad, 

Nor want but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 

AIR. 
Tune—^' For a* that, and a' that." 
I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that ; 
But Homer-like, the glowerin' byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugh for a ' that. 
I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's bum and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 
Mv Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 



124 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Great love I bear to a* the fair. 

Their humble slave, and a' that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, &c. 
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi* mutual love, and a' that; 
But for how lang the flee may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, &c. 
Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 

They've taen me in, and a' that; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 

I like the jads for a' that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that ; 

My dearest bluid, to do them giiid, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

BECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard, and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echoed from each mouth : 
They toomed their pocks, and pawned their duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowin' drouth. 
Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best : 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. *- 

Tune—'* Jolly mortals, fill your glasses.** 
See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Bound and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptiu'es let us sing. 



BCRNS'S POEMS. 125 



A fig for those by law protected I 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Cburches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where I 

A fig, &c. 

W^ith the ready trick and fable, 
Bound we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in bara or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

Does the train- attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and calletsi 

One and all cry out. Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 



126 BURNS'S POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY, 1786. 

I LANG hae thought my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind momento : 
But how the suhject- theme may gang. 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Even when your end's attained; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, hardened wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked ; 
But, och ! mankind are unco weak. 

And little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na censure. 
For still the important end of life, 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Though poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebour's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff ban' your story teii, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to youiFcL 

Ye scarcelv tell to ony. 



BURNS S POEMS. 127 

Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek through every other man, 

Wi' sharpened, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt the illicit rove, 

Though naething should divulge it : 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within, . 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by every wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train- attendant, 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent 

The fear o' hell's a hangman s whip 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border: 
Its slightest touches, instant pause I 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 
The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature; 
But still the preacnmg cant forbear, 

And even the rigid featui*e : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 
When ranting round in pleasure's ring 

Keligion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting; 

It mav be little minded 



128 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But when on life we're tempest driven, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

Adieu! dear, amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed," 

Still daily to grow wiser; 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did the adviser ! 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 

A fleechiu, fletherin dedication, 

To roose you up, and ca' you guid. 

And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 

Because ye're surnamed like his grace ; 

Perhaps related to the race : 

Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye, 

Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 

Set up a face, how I stopped short, / 

For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do, maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefu' ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ! 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ! 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin', 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On every hand it will allowed be. 
He's just, nae better than he should be. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 129 

I readily and freely gi*ant, 
He downa see a poor man want; 
What's no liis ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna hreak it : 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't 
Till aft his guidness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Even that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
It's nae thing but a milder feature, 
Of our poor sinfu', con-upt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Geutoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wlia never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed. 
It's no through terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy<tens a' thousands thou hast slain! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral, mercy, truth, and justice. 

No I stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal through a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that taks the door ; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane; 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter ! stick to sound believing ! 

Learn three-mile prayers and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthened groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own : 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

Oh ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your aiu delviu'I 
K 



130 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ellin, with his sweeping hesom, 
Just frets, till Heaven commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deepening tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I maist lorgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes 'cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, sir, to you: 
Because (ye needna tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Thien patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever— ^ 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I needna say : 
Tor prayin' I hae little skill o't ; ♦ 

I'm haith dead sweer and wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer, 
That kens or hears about you, sir ! 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark. 
Howl through the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
May ne'er his generous honest heart. 
For that same generous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honoured name 
Lang heet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are by their canty fireside risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days 
Till nis wee curlie John's ier-oe, 



BUBifS's POEMS. 131 

When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

I will not wind a lang conclusion. 
With complimentary effusion : ^ 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blessed with fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most feiTent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 
But if (which powers above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Yom* humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven I 
While recollection*s power is given. 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, through the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognise my master dear. 
If friendless, low we meet together, 
Th^, sir, your hand ! my friend and brother. 



A BAED'S EPITAPEI. 

Is there a whim-insph*ed fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rale, 

Owre blate to seek^ owre proud Xo snool. 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic Bong, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly tbis area throng, 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater- feeling strong, 

Here hears a sij';h. 



132 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Js there a man, whose judgment clear. 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himself life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave, 
Here pause ! and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below. 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know. 

And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stained his name. 

Eeader, attend ! whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flight beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



ADDKESS TO EDINBUEGH. 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sovereign powers ! 
From marking wildly-scattered flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I strayed. 
And singings lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honoured shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise : 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 133 

Thy sons, Edina 1 social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gay as the^gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes the adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine . 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, 

And marked with many a seamy scar : 
The ponderous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repelled the invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years. 

Famed heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how changed the times to come, 

Their royal name low in the dust! 
Their hapless race wild-wandering roam, 

Though rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Through hostile ranks and ruined gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Even I who sing in rustic lor^ 

Haply, my sires have left their shed> 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 



134 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sovereigpi powers I 
From marking wildly-scattered flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I Shelter in thy honoured shade. 



ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDEKSON, 

A GENTtEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS 
IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

Should the poor be flattered ? — Shakspeare. 

But now his radiant course is run, 
I For Matthew's course was bright ; 

I His soul was like the glorious sun, 
I A matchless, heavenly light ! 

\ 

6b Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody I 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie, 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides. 
I 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
fThe ae best f^low e'er was born I 
jThee, Matthew, nature's sel' shall mouru, 
By wood and wild, 
. I Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

I Frae man exiled ! 

I 

I Ye hills ! near neebours o' the stams, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, , 

Where echo slumbers I 
Come join, ye nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing liumbers ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 135 

Mourn, ilka grove the cusliat kens ! 
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae linn to linn I 

Mourn, little harebells o*er the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At even, when beans thek fragrance she 1, 

I' the rustling gale, 
Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade, 

Come, join my wail T 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And morn-n, ye whirring paitrick brood I 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. ' 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tower, 



136 BURNS'S POEMS. 

That time tlie moon, wi' silent glower 
Sets up her horn, 

Wail through the dreary midnight hour 
Till waukrife mom ! 

Oh, rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 
Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year I 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : * 

Thou, Summer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear 

For him that's dead. 
Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light I 
Mourn, empress of the silent night I 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn I 
For through your "orbs he's taen his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 
Oh, Henderson ! the man, the brother I 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And hast thou crossed that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 
Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
l^ut by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth I 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 137 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passeuger ! my story's brief, 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o* grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurned at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 
There moulders here a gallant heart. 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man. 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man, 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 

For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 

Like the unchanging blue, man. 
This was a kinsman o' thy ain. 

For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingln' sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



138 BURNS'S POEMS. 

TAM 0' SHANTER, 



Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke. 

Gawin DoUgl.\s. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebours, neebom's meet, 
As market-days are weai-ing late, 
And folk begin to tak the gate; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
And getting fu' and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shaiiter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 

Oh Tam! hadst thou but been sae wis«, 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice I 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na6 sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every nag was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fu' on ; 
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, 
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
. By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthened, sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 139 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony. 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fu' for weejjs thegither! 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious; 
The SQuter tauld his queerest stories. 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy'. 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snowfall in the river, 
A moment white, then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide, 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed. 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand./ 



140 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whyles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch Jiim unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brack's neck-bane ; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering through the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing. 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
What dangers thou can'st make us scorn I 
Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! 
The swats sae reamed in Tammy's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle: 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonished. 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels': 
A winnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick iu shape o' beast ; 



ft BURNS'S POEMS. 141 

A towzie tyke, black, gi'im, and large, • 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

CoflBns stood round, like open presses, 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrip sleight. 

Each in its cauld hand held a light, 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee unchristehed bairns ; 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled; 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 

Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carline swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark I 

Now Tam, oh Tam ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush,, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Eigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Louping and flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 



142 BURNS'S POEMS. |g 

But Tarn kenned what was what fu' brawl ie ; 
There was ae wmsoiue wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core : 
(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perished mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear.) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie : 
Ah ! little kenned the reverend grannie, 
That sark she eoft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, (*twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 
But here my muse her wing maun cower. 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, ., 
And thought his very een enriched ; 
Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and main: 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant a' was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish region sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail thehr byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As gager runs the market-crowd. 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fail in', 
In hell they'U roast thee like a hemu' 1 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' I 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman J 



^ BURNS'S POEMS. 143 

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* o' the hrig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross ! 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle, 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle ; 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys owre dear; 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, 

AS A NEW year's GIFT, JAH. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driven, 
And you, though scarce in maiden prime, 

Are so much nearer Heaven. 
No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 
Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charged, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you I 
* It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, 
have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the 
middle of the next running stream. It may be proper like- 
wise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he 
falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going 
forward, there is much more hazard in turning baok. 



144 BURNS'S POEMS. «. 

TKAGIC FRAGMENT. 
In my early years nothing less would serve me thanl 
courting the tragic muse. I was, I think, about eighteen prl 
nineteen when I sketched the outlines of a tragedy forsooth j I 
but the bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, which had! 
for sometime threatened us, prevented my farther progress, i 
In those days I never wrote down any. thing ; so, except al 
speech or two, the whole has escaped my memory. The! 
following, which I most distinctly remember, was an excla-l 
mation from a great character : great in occasional instances! 
of generosity, and daring at times in villanies. He is sup-| 
posed to meet with a child of misery, and exclaims to him- 
self : 
All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
A hardened, stubborn, iinrepenting villain, 
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 
And with sincere and unavailing sighs, 
I view the helpless children of distress. 
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor 
Rejoicing iti the honest man's destruction. 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you : 
Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds. 
Whom vice, as usual, has turned o'er to ruin. 
Oh, but for kind, though ill-requited friends, 
I had been driven forth like you forlorn. 
The most detested, worthless wretch among you I 



TO A KISS. 
Humid seal of soft affections, 

Tenderest pledge of future bliss, 
Dearest tie of young connections, * 

Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 
Speaking silence, dumb confession. 

Passion's birth, and infants' play. 
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, 

Glowing dawn of brighter day. 
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action, 

When lingering lips no more must join; 
What words can ever speak affection . 

So thrilling and sincere as thine ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 145 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And not for any guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

I bless and praise thy matchless might. 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation; 
I wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Through Adam's cause. 

When frae my mother's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whare damned devils roar and yeU, 

Chained to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is gi-eat and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock ; 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

Oh Lord I thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear. 
And singing there, and dancing here, 

Wi' great an' sma'. 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 
L 



146 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But yet, oh Lord I confess I must, 
At times I'm fashed wi' fleshly lust; 
And sometimes, too, wi' waiidly trust; 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou rememhers we are dust, 

Defiled in sin. 



Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times 1 trow ; 

But, Lord I that Friday I was fu', 

When I cam near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steered her ! 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 

Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord ! bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes. 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma*, 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And whan we chastened him therefore. 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 

0' laughing at us ; 
Curse thou Lis basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 147 

Lord! hear my earnest cry and prayer, 

Against the presbytery of Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand, Lord! make it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
Lord! weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongued Aiken, 

My very heart and saul are quakin'. 

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin*, 

And p — d wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin*, 

Held up his head. 

Lord! in the day of vengeance try him, 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him I 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their prayer ; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em. 

And dinna spare. 

But Lord, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temporal and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine. 

Excelled by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine. 

Amen, amen ! 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 
Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has taen some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun', 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But baud your nine -tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 



148 BURNS*S POEMS. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gaen. 

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit; 

A coof like him wad stain your name. 
If it were kent ye did it. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN GOUDIE OF 
KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

Oh Goudie! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and reverend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glowerin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition; 
Fie ! bring black Jock, her state physician. 

To see her water: 
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple; 
Haste ! gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

And gasps for breath! 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gane in a galloping consumption ; 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her ; 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 

Death soon will end her. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 149 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
Bnt gin the Lord's ain folk gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

And end the quarrel. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

Oh rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wsde o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams^ and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a- sink in', 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants. 
And in your wicked drunken rants, 
Ye make a devil o' the saunts, 

And fill them fu' ; 
And then their failings, flaws, and wants. 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it I 
That holy robe, oh dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black 1 
But your cursed wit, when it comes near it, 

Eives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner! wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing 
Oh saunts; tak that! ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich. 

^ A certain humorous dream of his was then making some 
noise in the country-side. 



150 BURNS'S POEMS. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargained for, and mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' canny care, 

And no neglect. 



THIBD EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 

September 13, 1785. 

GuiD speed and furder to you Johnny, 
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nickin down fu' canny 

The staif o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
Nor kick your rickles atf their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs, 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the topmost grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm busy too, and skelpin' at it. 

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it ; 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wf muckle wark. 
And took my jocteleg and whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

• A song he had promised the author. 



BURNd'S POEMS. 151 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whisky stills. 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it,- 

And if ye mak objections at it. 

Then han* in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

And witness take. 
And when wi* usquebae we've wat it. 
It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spared 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
And a' the vittel in the yard. 

And theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night : 

Then muse-inspmn' aquavitse 

Shall make us baith sae blithe and witty. 

Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty. 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane and twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpit wf the blast. 
And now the sun keeks in the west. 
Then I maun rin amang the rest. 

And quat ray chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste 

Yours, Rab the Ranter- 



152 BURNS'S POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO THE KEV. JOHN M'MATH. 

September 17, 1785. 

While at the stock the shearers cower 
To shun the bitter blaudin' shower, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scower 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle i:hyme. 

My musie, tired wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, and ban', and douse black bonnet. 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
And rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy. 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Should meddle wi* a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 
But Igae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin*, grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces 

Theirraxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, 

Waur nor their nonsenscc 
There's Gawn,* misca'd waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abused him, 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've used him ? 
See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
And shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
And not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 153 

Oh, Pope ! had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
rd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

And tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be. 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times I rather would be 

An atheist clean. 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, and malice fause. 

He'll still disdain. 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o* mercy, grace, and truth. 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth. 

To ruin straight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name tliee; 
To stigmatise false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Though blotched and foul wi' mony a stain. 

And far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those. 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. 
In spite o* undermining jobs, 



154 BURNS'S POEMS. 

In spite V dark banditti stabs, 

At worth and merit, 

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 
But hellish spirit. 

Oh Ayr! my dear, my native ground! 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid liberal band is found. 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renowned. 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are named; 
Sir, in that circle you are famed ; 
And some, by whom your doctrine's blamed, 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even sir, by them your heart's esteemed, 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have taen. 
And if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wranged ye. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that .belanged ye. 



THE AMEEICAN WAK, 

A FRAGMENT. 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
And did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then through the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man; 
D own Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 



BURNS*S POEMS. 155 

But yet, wliat-reckjlie, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man; 
But at New York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma',man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought aslang's he dought. 

And did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But CHnton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 
Then Montague, and Guildford, too. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, 

The German Chief to thraw, man: 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

Andlowsed his tinkler jaw, man. 
Then Rockingham took up the game. 

Till death did on him ca', man; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North and Fox, united stocks, 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa, man ; 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him ssiir faux pas j man : 



156 BURNS*S POEMS. 

The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 
On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 

And Scotland drew her pipe and blew^ 
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

Behind the throne then Grenviile's gonej 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas aroused the class, 

Be-north the Roman wa', man ; 
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man,") 
Wi' kmdling eyes cried, " Willie, rise, 

Would I hae feared them a', man ?" 

But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co., 

GowfFed Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man : 
And Caledon threw by the drone, 

And did her whittle draw, man ; 
And swoor fu' rude, through dirt and blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

AuLD Neebour, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, friendly letter ; 
Though I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle, 

O' warldly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 157 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit ; 
And giff it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink; 

Whyles dazed wi' love, whyles dazed wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' liviu', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

And while ought's there, 
Then hiltie-skiltie, we gae scrievin*, 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Though rough and raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye. 

Though e'er sae puir, 
Na, even though limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



158 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ON WILLIAM SMELLIE. 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crocliallan came, 
The old cocked hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
w'T^s four long nights and days to shaving night; 
Hif'uncombed grizzly locks wild staring, thatched 
A head for thought profound and clear unmatched ; 
Yet though his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



TO EUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolved, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then lowering and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Though thickening and blackening 
Bound my devoted head. 

And thou grim power, by life abhorred, 
While life a pleasure can afford. 

Oh, hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appalled, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 159 

TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH* 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie! 

Your impudence protects you sairly : 

I canna say but ye strunt rarely, ^. 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Though, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place ! 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunned, by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, 
Wr ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the flatterells, snug and tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, towering height 

0' miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and grey as ony grozet; 
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gae you sic a hearty dose o't 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! 

How daur ye do't ? 



160 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
And set your beauties a' abread 1 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' I 
. Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
^ ^ Are notice takin' ! 

Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us I 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, 

And even devotion ! 



THE INVENTOKY. 

IS ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THB 
TAXES. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
O' guids and gear, and a' my graith. 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My han' afore's* a guid auld has been 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been. 
My han' ahin'sb a weel gaun filly. 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,* 
And your auld burro' mony a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime ; 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(Lord pardon a' my sins, and that too !" 
I played my filly sic a shavie. 
She's a' bedeviled with the spavie. 

* The fore-horse on the left-hand in the ploupl-. 
b The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough, 

• Kilmarnock. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 161 

My fur aliin's* a wordy beast, 

As e'er in tug or tow was traced. 

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 

A damned red wud Kilburnie blastie ! 

Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale, 

As ever ran afore a tail. 

If he be spared to be a beast, 

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. 

Wheel-carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; 
I made a poker of the spin'le. 
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys. 
Run de'ils for rantin* and for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davock bauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. 
And aften labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith ! wee Davock's turned sae gleg, 
Though scarcely langer than your leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servan' statioxs, 
(Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation I ) 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
And ye have, laid nae tax on misses ; 
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
T ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought BcvSs, 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already. 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
By the Lord ! ye'se get them a' thegither. 
The hindmost horse on the rjifht-hand in the plough. 



162 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I'se do declare. 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair ; 
Through dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
The kirk and you may tak you that, 
It puts but littie in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your book, 
Nor for my ten white shDlings look. 

This list wi' my ain hand I 'ye wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns 

Mossgiel, -February 22, 1786. 



A NOTE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 
MAUCHLINE, 

RECOMMENDING A BOY, 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 
I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to hire yon lad away, 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

And wad hae don't aff ban' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 
And tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair. 
If sae be ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Although I say't, he's gleg enough, 
And 'bout a house that's rude and rough 
The boy might learn to swear ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 163 

But then wi* you he'll he sae taught, 
And get sic fair example straught, 

I have na ony fear. 
Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 
And shore him weel wi' hell ; 
And gar him follow to the kirk, 
Aye when ye gang yoursel'. 
If ye then maan he then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 

To meet the warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
And name the airles and the fee, 

In legal mode and form ; 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 
When simple hodies let him ; 
And if a devil he at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 

To phrase you, and praise you. 

Ye ken yom* laureate scorns: 

The prayer still, you share still, 

Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 

Wi' hraw new branks in muckle pride, 

And eke a braw new hrechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin : 
Whyles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenned name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae sti-anger to your fame, 

Nor his warm-m*ged wishes. 



164 BURNS*S POEMS. 

Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'U no be lost a whit, 

Though waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And honour safely back her, 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

T doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mouthed pouthered priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin' glowerin' countra laird. 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid before you wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon 

And fructify your amours, 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 165 

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief: 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass ; 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 

IVe seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil ; 

And, for thy potence, vainly wished 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved shore, 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B.— Kyle. 



9 

LAMENT. 

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO I.EAVE SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain 
straying, 

Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave! 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore ; 

Where the flower which bloomed sweetest in Colia's 
green vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 

No more shall my arm cling with fondness around her. 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm ray breast, 
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore ; 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest. 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



166 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo- clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gien us a' a jink, 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's taen anither shore, 

And owre the sea ! 

The bonnie lasses weel may w^s him, 
And in their dear petitions pl^e him: 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi* tearfu' e'e; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

Oh fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 
^ 'Twad been nae plea ; 

But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor- west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast, 
-And owre the sea. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 167 

To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hurdles in a hammock. 

And owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
And hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ; 
He wad na wranged the vera deil, 

'That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-oj|mposing billie : 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Though owre the sea I 



THE FAREWELL. 

The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 

Or what does he regard his single woes ? 

But when, alas ! he multiplies himself. 

To dearer selves, to the loved tender fair, 

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, 

To helpless children ! then, oh then ! he feels 

The point of misery festering on his heart, 

And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 

Such, such am I ! undone ! 

Thomson. 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 
Where rich ananas blow I 



168 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! though thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
Oh then befri^d my Jean! 

When bursting anguish tears my heart! 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 
Thou, weeping, answerest " No !'* 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indel|^ed tear, 
Shall still remember you ! 
All hail, then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shote I 
It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll never see thee more ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdles like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need. 
While through your pores the dews distil 

Like arnber bead. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 169 

His knife see rustic labour diglit, 
And cut you up wi' ready slight. 
Trenching your gushing enti-ails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
Deil tak the hinmost, on they drive, 
Till a* their weel-swalled kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums ! 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Ox fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner. 
Looks down wi* sneering, scomfu* view 

On sic a dinner ! 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a withered rash, 
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His iiieve a nit ; 
Through bloody flood or field to dash, 

Oh how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his tread ; 

Clap in his wtilie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whistle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thistle. 

Ye powers wha mak mankind your care. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae sinking ware 

That jaups in luggies; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, 

Gie her a haggis! 



170 BURNS'S POEMS. 

EXTEMPOBE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 
Tune — ^' Cillicrankie." 
Lord Advocate. 
He clenched his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 
His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graiped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 
He eked out wi' law, man. 

Mr. Erskine. 
Collected Harry stood a wee, 

Then opened out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And eyed the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driven hail, it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The hench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-waukened wi the din, man. 



TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE, 

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH SHE HAD SENT THE 
AUTHOR. 

I MIND it weel in early date. 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or baud a yokin at the pleugh ; 
And though forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn: 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoned was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing, 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, and haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 171 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its power, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or benk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turned the weeder-clips aside, 
And spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 
But still the elements o' sang 
In formless jumble, right and wrang. 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core. 

She roused the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek. 
But bashing and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 
Health to the sex ! ilk good chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance iri winter days ; 
And we to share in common : 
The gust o* joy, the balm of woe. 
The soul o life, the heaven below. 

Is rapture- giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 

That shght the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Hk honest birkie swears. 



17*2 BURNS'S POEMS. 

For you, no bred to bam and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
rd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

And plenty be your fa', 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'l 
Mafch, 1787. 



VEKSES 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, 
IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A 
YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
"Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



INSCRIPTION 

ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON, 

Here lies 

Robert Fergusson, Poet. 

Born, September 5, 1751 ; 

Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 173 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, 
APRIL 16, 1787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted, honest fame; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot; 
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassioned with the grateful throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' powers in southern's song; 
But here an ancient nation famed afar, 
For genius, learning high as great in war : 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear! 
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear I 
Where every science, every nobler art. 
That can inl^m the mind, or mend the heart. 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream. 
Here holds her search by heaven-taughtEeason*sbeam; 
Here History paints with elegance and force, 
The tide of empire's fluctuating course; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, 
And Harley* revises all the god in man. 
When well-formed taste and sparkling wit unite 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place). 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge, you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath his feet; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Oh thou dread Power! whose empire -giving hand 
Has oft been stretched to shield the honoured land! 

• *• The Man of Feeling," written by Mr. Mackenzie. 



174 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Strong may she glow witli all her ancient fire ! 

May every son b*e worthy of his sire! 

Firm may she rise with generous disdain 

At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain I 

Still self-dependent in her native shore, 

Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 

Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. 

AuLD chuckle Reekie's'^ sair distressed, 
Down droops her ance weel-bumished crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

WiDie's awa I 

Oh, Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight. 

And trig and braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright ; 

Willie's awa ! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bowed; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cowed ; 
They durst nae mair than he allowed, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd ; 

Willie's awa! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw : 
He wha could brush them down to mools ; 

WilUe's awa! 
The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumerb 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; 

* Edinburgh. 

b The Chamber of Commerce at Edinburgh, of which 
Creech was secretary. 



BDRNS*S POEMS. 175 

He was a diclionar and grammar 

Amang them a' : 
T. fear they'll now mak mony a stammer ; 

Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 
Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Kome ne'er saw; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 
Poor Bums e'en Scotch drink canna quicken 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scared frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin' ; 

Willie's awa ! 
Now every sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their helium, 

Willie's awa ! 
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled ; 

Willie's awa! 
May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Though far awal 



176 BURNS'S POEMS. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him I 
May never wicked men bamboozle him I 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw I 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa - 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER 
BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill- presaging glare. 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave ; 

The inconstant blast howled through the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wandered by each cliff and dell. 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Or mused where limpid streams once hallowed well,i> 
Or mouldering ruins marked the sacred fane.* 

The increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift-winged, flew o'er the starry sky ; 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, 
And mixed her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I viewed : 

Her form majestic drooped in pensive woe, 
The lightening of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war. 
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurled, 

That like a dealhful meteor gleamed afar, 
And braved the mighty monarchs of the woild. 

* The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

to St. Anthony's well. ^ St. Anthony's chapel. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 177 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave I" 
With accents wild and lifted arms, she cried; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretched to save, 
Low lies the heart that swelled with honest pride. 

A weeping country joins a widow*s tear ; 

The helpless poor mix with the oi-phan's cry ; 
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier ; 

And grat^ul science heaves the heart- felt sigh ! 

I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

1 saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is boi-n but to expire ! 

Eelentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
"While empty greatness saves a worthless name! 

No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Through future times to make his vhtueJast: 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs!" 
She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast. 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN 
LOCH-TURIT, 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your watery haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 



178 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below; 
Plumes himself in freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, , 

In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels: 
But man, to whom alone is given 
A ray direct from pitying Heaven, 
Glories in his heart humane, 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wandering swains. 
Where the mossy rivulet strays, 
Far from hunian haunts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his powers you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 



BURNS'S P0E3IS. 179 

The lightly-jumpin' glowerin* trouts, 

That through my waters play, 
If, in their randora, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
T hey're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi* spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came hy, 
That to a hard I should he seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shored me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad adored me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes. 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees. 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Ketum you tuneful thanks. ' 

The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir: 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 



180 BURNS'S POEMS. 

This, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin' sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, hy sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pan*, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flowers shall vie in all their channs 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering through the trees, 
Eave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' watery bed I 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines dressed, 

My craggy clifi's adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embowering thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honoured native land! 
So may, through Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses. 
The grace be, " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses ! " 



BURNS*S POEMS. 181 

THE HERMIT. 

TRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HERMITAGB 
BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ATUOLE, IN THE WOOD OP 
ABERFELDY, 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
Think not, though from theworld receding, 
I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear ; 
That fell remorse a conscience hleeding 

Hath led me here. 

No thought of guilt my hosom sours ; 
if'ree-willed I fled from courtly howers ; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride. 
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers, 

In state preside. 

I saw mankind with vice encrusted; 
I saw that honour's sword was rusted ; 
That few for ought hut folly lusted ; 
That he was still deceived who trusted 

To love or friend ; 
And hither came, with men disgusted. 

My life to end. 

In this lone cave, in garments lowly. 

Alike a foe to noisy folly, 

And brow-hent gloomy melancholy, 

I wear away 
My life, and in my office holy 

Consume the day. 

This rock my shield, when stonns are blowing. 
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert wood. 

Content and comfort bless me more in 
This grot, than ever I felt before in 



182 ^ BURNS'S POEMS. 

A palace, and with thonghts still soaring 
To God on high, 

Each night and morn with voice imploring. 
This wish I sigh : 

" Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire, 
Unknown each guilty worldly fire, 
Eemorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die, 
Let me in this belief expire. 

To God I fly." 

Stranger, if full of youth and riot. 
And yet no grief Las marred thy quiet, 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer. 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care ; 

If thou hast known false love's vexation, 
Or has been exiled from thy nation, 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, 

And makes thee pine. 
Oh I how must thou lament thy station, 

And envy mine ! 



VERSES 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IH 
THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep. 

The abode of covied grouse and timid sheep. 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 

Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view. 

The meeting cliffs each deep- sunk glen divides, 

The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides ; 

The outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills 



BURNS'S POEMS. 183 

The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride, 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ; 
The hillocks, dropped in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches, striding o'er the new-bom stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam« 

* * * * 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

The incessant roar of he^^dlong tumbling floods. 

* * * * 

Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled. 
Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her 

scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardon man. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF Fi*ERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Wherethrough a shapeless beach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below. 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 

Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless showers 

The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowers ; 

Still through the gap the struggling river toils, 

And still below, the horrid cauldron boils. 



184 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRE- 
SIDENT DUNDAS. 
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters* roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair I 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance eyed, and swayed her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sank, abandoned to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in liope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. 

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey. 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong : 
Hark I injured Want recounts the unlistened tale. 
And much-wronged Misery pours the unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 185 

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH 
OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., 

brother to a young lady, a particular friend of the 
author's. 
Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And ruefiU thy alarms ; 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 
Sweetly decked with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow, 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 
Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smiled, 
But, long e'er noon succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguiled. 
Fate oft tears the bosom cords 

That nature finest strung; 
So Isabella's heart was formed, 

And SQ that heart was wrung. 
Were it in the poet^s power, 

Strong as he" shares the grief 
That pierces Isabella's heart, 

To give that heart relief. 
Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes. 

To scenes beyond the grave. 
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 
with the present op the bard's picture. 
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected; 
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despised and neglected. 



186 BURNS S POEMS. 

Though something like moisture conglohes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more if that wanderer were royal. 
My fathers that name have revered on a throne, 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scofiingly slight it. 
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join 

The queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, he they foolish, is nothing of mine; 

Their title's avowed hy my country. 
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 
But loyalty, truce I we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. 

To-morrow may bring us a halter 1' 
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



TO MISS CKUICKSHANKS, 

-A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO 
HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never mayest thou, lovely flower. 
Chilly shrink in sleety shower; 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 187 

Never baleful stellar lights, 

Taint thee with untimely blights ! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Eiot on thy virgin leaf ! 

Nor even Sol too fiercely view 

Thy bosom blushing still with dew! 

Mayest thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to pai'ent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. . 



A SKETCH.* 
A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learned vive la bagatelle, et vive r amour ; 
So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: 
His solid sense by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
His meddling vanity a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 
*. One of a series intended for a projected work, under the 
title of " The Poet's Progress." The above was sent as a 
specimen, accompanied by a letter, to Professor Dugald 
Stewart, in which it is thus noticed : " The fragment begin- 
ning, ' A little, upright, pert, tart,' &c., I have not shown to 
any man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the pos- 
tulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it 
appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This 
particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand 
at portrait sketching." 



18$ BURNS*S POEMS. 

TO CLARINDA, 

WITH A PRESENT OP A PAIR OF DRINKINQ-GLASSKS. 

Fair empress of the poet's soul, 

And queen of poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice. 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast, 

" The whole of human kind !" 

" To those who love us !" second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
«Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third, " To thee and me, love I" 



TO CLABINDA, ON LEAVING EDINBURGH. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measured time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Deprived of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part! but, bv these precious dropi^ 

That fill thy lovely eyes : 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blessed my glorious day; 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 189 

AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION ON BEING 
APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

SEARCHI^•G auld wives' barrels, 

Och, honl the day! 
That clarty barm shoiild stain my laurels ; 

But what'll ye say ! 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes I 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crossed the muse's heckles, 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't through it ; 

Here, ambushed by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i* the neuk, 

I hear it, for in vain I leuk. 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal: 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kenned face but Jenny Geddes.* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride I 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And aye a westlin leuk she throws. 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose I 

Was it for tliis, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the bard through many a shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

Oh, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

* His marc. 



180 BUBNS'S POEMS* 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; • 

For I could lay my bread and kail. 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 

And sma',sma' prospect o' relief, 

And nought but peet reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read? 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'U find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

KOBEBT BURN8. 



WKITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE 

ON THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou decked in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 
As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summits would'st thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 191 

Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, 

Soar around each cliffy hold, 

While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of evening close. 
Beckoning thee to long repose^ 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease ; 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought: 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not, art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wast thou cottager or king ? 
Peer or peasant ? no such thing ! 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
To virtue or to vice is given. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self- enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resigned and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go I Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



192 BURNS'S POEMS. 

EXTEMPORE TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL OF 
GLENRIDDEL, 

ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

EUisland, Monday Evening. 

YouB news and review, sir, I've read through and 
through, sir, 

With Uttle admiring or blaming; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, sir; 
But of meet or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestowed on your servant, the poet; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, sir, should know it 1 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER SON. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonoured laid ; 
So fell tUe pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've feared thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond I bare my breast. 
Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 193 

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

EoR lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die, for that they're born : 
But oh! prodigious to reflec' I 
A towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck ^ 
Oh eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us I 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guidwife's wee hirdie cocks; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something doui* o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er clawed a midden. 
Ye ministers, come mount the im'pit, 
Arid cry till ye be hearse and roupit, 
For eighty-eight he wished you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear and uieal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck 1 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 

Observe the very nowte and sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ! 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

Oh eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
And no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak cai-e. 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuffed, muzzled, hap-shackled regent, 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man I 
As muckle better as you can. 
o 



194 BURNS*S POEMS. 

ADDEESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 

My curse upon thy venomed stang, 
That shoots my tortured gums alang ; 
And through my lugs gies mony a twang, 

^ Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines I 

> When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee, thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our gi'oan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
1 kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the numerous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see i 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca* hell, 
Whence a* the tones o' misery yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' I 

Oh, thou grim mischief- making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel. 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ! 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's toothache ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 195 

ODE, 

'SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. §SWALD. 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! marki 
Who in widow-weeds appears, « 
Laden with unhonoured years ; 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse I 



View the withered beldam's face : 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

!Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretched to save, 

Hands that took, but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblessed ! 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes ! 
(Awhile forbear, ye torturing fiends !) 
Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurled from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondarfi mate, 
Doomed to share thy fiery fate, * 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year? 

In other words, can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mockery of the pompous bier ! 

While down the wretched vital part is driven. 

The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear 

Expires in rags, imknown, and goes to heaven 



196 BURNS^S POEMS. 

THE KIRK'S ALARM,^ 

A SATIRE. , 

Orthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe in Jolin Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; 

There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawn in the wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,b Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was mad I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 

Provost John'' is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob«^ is its rain. 

D'rymple mild,^ D'rymple mild, 

Though your heart's like a child. 
And your life like the new-driven snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must have ye. 
For preaching that thi*ee's ane and twa. 

Rumble John,' Rumble John, 
*Mount the steps wi' a groan. 
Cry the book is wi' heresy crammed ; 

Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like adle. 
And roar every note of the damned. 

Simper James,^ Simper James, 
Leave the/air Killie dames, 

* This poem was written a short time after the publicatioi 
of Mr. M'Gill's essays. 
»> Dr. M'Gill. *= John Ballantyne, Esq. 

d Mr. Robert Aiken. ® Rev. William Dalrymple. 

' Rev. John Russell. ^ Rev. James M'Kinlay. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 197 

There's a liolier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, 
. That the pack ye'll soon lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,* Singet Sawney, 

Are ye huirdiug the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await ; 

Wi' a jump, y^U, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,'* Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk; 

Though ye can do little skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, 

If for a saint ye do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose,d Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant; 

But the Doctor's your mark. 

For the Lord's haly ark ; 
He has coopered and cawd a wrong pin in*t. 

Poet Willie,* Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he . 

Andro Gouk/ Andro Gouk, 
Ye may slander the book, 

Rev. Alexander Moodie. ^ Rev. Mr. Auld. 

Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. ♦! Mr. Young, of Curanockf 

Rev. Dr. Peebles. f Dr. Andrew Mitchell. 



193 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Aud the book not the waur, let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, 

But lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'U hae a calf s head o' sma* value. 

Barr Steenie,* Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi* the matter, 

Ye may hae some pretence 

To hayins and sense, 
Wi* people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,* Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share; 

Ye've the figure 'tis true. 

Even your faes will allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, 

When the Lord makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit. 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,d Holy Will, 

There was wit i' your skull, 
When ye pilfered the alms o' the poor ; 

The timmei* is scant, 

When ye're taen for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 

Seize your spiritual guns. 
Ammunition you never can need ; 

Your hearts are the stuff. 

Will be powther enough. 
And your skulls are storehouses o* lead, 

* Rev. Stephen Young, of Barr. 
»» Rev. George Smith, of Galston. 

• Mr. John Shepherd, of Muirkirk. 
«* William Fisher, an elder in Mauchline. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 199 

Poet Burns, Poet Bums, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Your muse is a gipsy ; 

E'en though she waur tipsy, 
She could ca* us nae waur than we are. 



TO MR. M*ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEX-GILLAN. 

Sib, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard !" 

I lap and cried fu' loud. 
Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a' ; 

I'm roosed by Craigen-Gillan ! 
'Twas, noble sir, 'twas like yoursel', 

To grant your high protection ; 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 

Is aye a blessed infection. 
Though by his* banes, who in a tub 

Matched Macedonian Sandy; 
On my ain legs through dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye. 
And when those legs to guid warm kail, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail. 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' many flowery simmers I 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith ; 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 
And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 

» Diogenes. 



200 BURNS*S I^OEMS* 

DELTA. 
Fair the face of orient day, 

Fair the tints of opening rose; 
But fairer stijl my Delia dawns, 

More lovely far her beauty shows. 
Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 

Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 

Steal thine accents on mine ear. 
The flower-enamoured busy bee, 

The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 

To the sun-browned Arab's lip. 
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no fragrant insect, rove ; 
Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss. 

For oh! my soul is parched with love. 

VERSED WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 
Accept the gifta friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin'; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear. 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear, 

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 
My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 

My peace, my hope, for ever! 
You think I'm glad : oh, I pay weel, 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude, then, then I feel 
1 canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply rankling sorrow. 
Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whyles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughing e'e, 
For Scotia's son, ance gay like thee, 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 201 

LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DA:ER. 

This wot you all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne*er-to-be-foro^otten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinnered wi' a lord. 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fu' 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' reverence be it spoken ; 
I've even joined the honoured jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken* 

But wi' a lord I stand out my shin : 
A lord, a peer, an earl's son I 

Up higher yet my bonnet! 
And sic a lord ! lang Scotch eUs twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a*. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh! for Hogarth's magic power! 
To show Sir Bardie's willy art glower. 

And how he stared and stammered, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammered. 

I sidling sheltered in a nook, 
And at his lordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watched the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 



202 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Hail, thairm-inspiring, rattling Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming biUie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, 

YirrI fancy barks, awa we canter 

Up hill, down brae, till some mish^inter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe and banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ] hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

0' this wild warl', 
. Until you on a crummock driddle, 
A grey-haired carle. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon. 
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune. 
And screw your temper-pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

O' cankrie care. 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae " lente largo" in the play. 
But " allegretto forte" gay, 

Harmonious flow, 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey ; 

Encore! bravo! 



BITRNS'S POEMS. 203 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
And never think o* right and wrang 

By square and rule, 
But as the clegs o* feeling stang, 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace : 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand! my careless brither, 
r the ither warl', if there's anither; 
And that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither; 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

WeVe faults and failings, granted clearly; 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely : 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly : 
^ God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching cursed delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte, 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnin' spite. 

But by yon moon ! and that's high swearin', 
And every star within my hearin' ! 
And by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 



204 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Ance to the Indies I were wonte<l, 
Some cantrip hour, 

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. 
Then, vive V amour! 

Faites mes baissemains respectiieusef 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

And honest Lucky ; no to roose ye, 

Ye m*y be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 

And trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Egbert Burns. 
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786., 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbarous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; # 

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart I 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field! 

The bitter little that of life remains : 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wanted rest. 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed I 
'I'he sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom pressed. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; 
ril miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fix te. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

LETTEE TO JAMES TENNANT 

OF GLENCONXER. 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk a^out Glenconner ? 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozened. 
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
And Eeid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled^. 
Till wi' their logic jargon tired, 
And in the depth of science mired, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives and wabsters see and feel. 
But, hark ye, friend: I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them, and return them quickly. 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 
I pray and ponder butt the house ; 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston; 
Till bye and bye, if I baud on, 
I'll gi'unt a real gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my e'en up like a pyet. 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er. 
Fluttering and gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shining light. ^ 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace and wale o' honest men ; 
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs. 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
And views beyond the grave comfort him ; 
His worthy family far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and geai-I 



206 BURNS*S POEMS. 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

And no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm told he offers very fairly. 

And, Lord ! remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, and a bannock ; 

And next my auld acquaintance Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen* it, 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious. 

And lastly Jamie for yoursel', 

May guardian angels tak a spell, 

And steer you seven miles south o' hell : 

But first, before you see heaven's glory, 

May ye get mony a merry story, 

Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 

And aye eneugh o* needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi* you. 
For my sake this I beg it o* you. 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man : 
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

KOB THE Rakter. 



FRAGMENT. 

INSCKIBED TO THE RIOHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction, 
I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I ; let the critics go whistle ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 207 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits, 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky 

hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man ? for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his 

evil. 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours. 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its 

neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box ; a friend, would you know 

him I 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show 

him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have missed him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human natm-e they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ! there's more in the 

wind. 
As by one dnmken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature called man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



208 EURNS'S POEMS. 

WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 

'Once fondly loved and still remembered dear; 

Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere ; 

Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 
And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 

One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more. 
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 

Or haply lies beneath the Atlantic roar. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct., \1S9. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie I 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
i kenned it still your wee bit jauntie, 

Wad bring ye to : » 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 
The ill-thief bl aw the Heron south! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippened to the chield in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 
But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. 
But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turned a ganger. Peace be here I 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me I 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 209 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is ; 

I needna vaunt, < 

But I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies. 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this warld o' care I 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers; 
But why should ae man better fare^ ^ 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, firm Resolve, tak thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man I 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And greatfully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

EOBEliT Bellas. 



210 BURNS*S POEMS. 

SKETCH ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, time winds the exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpaired machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 
The absent lover, minor heir, 
Jn vain assail him with their prayer; 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's* care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow, 
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow! ' 
And join with me a-moralising, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on !" 
Rest on, for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will time, amused with proverbed lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may, a few years must, 
Repose us in the silent dust 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ; 
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss i 
The voice of Nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies. 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight: 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone; 

* This young lady, daughter of Mrs. Dunlop, was drawing 
a picture of Coila, from " The Vision.** 



BURNS'S POEMS. 211 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night. 

Since, then, my honoured first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends. 

Let us the important now employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Though you, with days and honours crowned. 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AX THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON XEW-YEAR'S-DAY 
EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o'er our taste, the more's the pity! 
Though, by-the-bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for, panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient coughed, and bid me say, 
"You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser, too, he hinted some suggestion. 
But 'twould be rude you know to ask the question; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press this one word, " think !'* 
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and 
spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to snatch him 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suflferiug, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 



212 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important now I 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, though haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



PROLOGUE, 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 

How this new play and that new sang is comin' ? « 

Why is outlandish stuff so meikle courted ; 

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 

Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame ? 

For comedy abroad he heedna toil, 

A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, 

To gather matter for a serious piece ; 

There's themes enough in Caledonian story. 

Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheathed the sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing. 
Wrenched his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all the omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 213 

A woman, though the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil I 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglasses were heroes every age: 
And though your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads I 
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak the muses' servants by the hand; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where you justly can commend, commend them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say the folks hae done their best I 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw, until her trumpet cracl^, 
And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 
'For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
■ Wha's aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here ?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like guid mithers, shore before you strike. 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor; ye'se get but thanks. 



PEG NICHOLSON. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trode on aim; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode through thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting even the skin. 



214 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair ; 

And much oppressed and bruised she was, 
As priest-rid cattle are, &c., &c. 



LINES, 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT THE POET A NEWSPAPER, 
AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OP EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And, faith, to me, 'twas really new I 

HoTViguessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grained and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewing. 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doing ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt; 

If Denmark, anybody spak o't; 

Or Poland wha had now the tak o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin' : 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin' or takin* aught amiss ; 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court, kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him J] 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' , 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed. 

Or if bare a s yet were taxed ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 215 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. 
A' tjiis and mair I never heard of. 
And but for you I might despaired of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! 
Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790. 



TO MY BED. 

Thou bed, in which I first began 
To be that various creature, man ! 
And when again the Fates decree. 
The place where I must cease to be; 
When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; 
When cares surround me, where I weep. 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; 
When sore with labour, whom I court, 
And to thy downy breast resort ; 
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find. 
When deigns my Delia to be kind, 
And full of love, in all her charms. 
Thou givest the fair one to my arms. 
The centre thou, where grief and pain, 
Disease and rest, alternate reign. 
Oh, since within thy little space. 
So many various scenes take place; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
As sages dictate, churchmen preach ; 
And man, convinced by thee alone, 
This great important truth shall own: 
That thin partitions do divide 
The bounds where good and ill reside ; 
That nought is perfect here below; 
But bliss still bordering upon woe. 



2l6 BURNS'S POEMS. 

FIRST EPISTLE TO ME. GRAHAM, OF 
FINTRY. 
When Nature her great masterpiece designed, 
And framed her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 
She formed of various parts the various man. 
Then first she calls the useful many forth ^ 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-aproned kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net; 
The cajpnt mortimm of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks the unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 
The ordered system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well pleased, pronounced it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignusfatuus matter. 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant tcPshow it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it a poet, 
Creature, though oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blessed to-day, unmindful of to-morrow ; 
A being formed to amuse his graver friends. 
Admired and praised, and there the homage ends; 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 217 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
Sbe laughed at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attached him to the generous truly great: 
A title, and the only one I claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stem absorbent stuff. 
That never gives, though humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage proverbed wisdom's hard- wrung boon. 
The world were blessed did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend 1" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool i) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should^ 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ! 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etched on base alloy! 
But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguished, to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race. 
Come thou who givest with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhyn^es I 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abashed, to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine, 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mme I 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how tlieir lofty, independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit! 
Seek not the" proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind 1 



218 BURNS'S POEMS. 

So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends. 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clamorous cry of starving want, 

They dun henevolence with shameless front; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere ray poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny* fist assume the plough again ; 

The pie bald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen -pence a- week I've lived before. 

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 

That, placed by thee upon the wished-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



THE FIVE CAKLINS. 

There were five carlines in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Nor only bring them tidings hame, 

But do their errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith.. 

A dame wi' pride enough, 
And Marjory o' the Mony lochs, 

A carline auld and tough. 

And blinkin' Bess o' Annandale, 
That dwelt near Solwayside, 

And whisky Jean, that took her gill, 
In Galloway sae wide. 

And black Joan, frae Crichton Peel, 

O' gipsy kith and kin; 
Five wighter carlins wama foun' • 

The south countra within. 



BURNS*S POEMS, *J19 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

The errand fain would gae. 

O mony a knight and mony a laird, 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight,* 

Bred o* a bordel: clan, 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstan'. 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth,>» 

And spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

If sae their pleasure was. 

H^ wadna hecht them courtly gifts. 

Nor meikle speech pretend, 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, 

Wad ne'er desert a friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse. 

At strife thir carlines fell ; 
For some had gentle folks to please, 

And some wad please themsel'. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o* Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride. 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court* 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son.<* 

Sir J. Johnstone. b Captain Miller. 

George III. d The Prince of Wales, 



220 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annaudale^ 

And a deadly aith she's taen, 
That she wad vote the border knight, 

Though she should vote her lane. 

For far-aflf fowls hae feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae tried the border knight. 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 

A carlin stoor and grim : 
The auld guidman, and the young guidman, 

For me may sink or swim ; 

For fools will freat d right or wrang, 
While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, 
So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink. 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa' ; 

And mony a friend that kissed his cup, 

Is now a fremit wight; 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean : 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

And wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet grey, 

Her auld Scots bluid was true : 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
God grant the king and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel*. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 221 

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. 
Tune — Up and waur them a". 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 

Wad tnist bis grace wi' a', Jamie, 
But be'll sair tbern as be saired tbe king, 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 
Up and waiir tbem a', Jamie, 

Up and waiir tbem a' ; 
Tbe Jqbnstons bae tbe giiidin' o't, 
Ye turncoat Wbigs, awa. 

Tbe day be stood bis country's friend, 

Or gied ber faes a claw, Jamie, 
Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 

That day tbe duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wba is be, bis country's boast ? 

Like bim tbere was ua twa, Jamie ; 
Tbere's no a callant tents tbe key, 

But kens o' Westerba', Jamie. 
To end tbe wark, bere's Wbisdebirck, 

Lang may bis wbistle blaw, Jamie ; 
And Maxwell true o' sterling blue, 

And we'll be Jobnstons a', Jamie. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM, OF 
FINTRY. 
Fix TRY, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncoutb, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll tiing my leg. 

And ye sball see me try bim. 
ni sing tbe zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Wbo left tbe all-important cares 

Of princes and tbeir darlings ; 
And bent on winning borougb towns. 
Came sbaking bands wi' wabster louus, 

And kissing barefit carlius. 



222 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Combustion through our boroughs rode, 
Whistliug his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurled 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war ; 
The unmannered du^t might soil his star 

Besides, he hated bleeding; 
But left behind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Csesarean fight 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners ; 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(The enamoured laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the loves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all conquering, played his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-armed corps; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder; 
Glenriddel, skilled in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought. 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory, 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinched his ground, 
High waved his magnum bonum rouncl 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up the artillery ranks, 
The many pounders of the Banks, 
Resistless desolation, 



BURNS'S POEMS. 223 

While Maxwelton, thdt baron bold, 
Mid Lawson's port entrenched his hold, 
And threatened worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts opposed ; 
With these, what Tory warriors closed, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rushed to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
Grim horror grinned ; pale terror roared 
As murder at his thrapple shored; 

And hell mixed in the brulzie I 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft. 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods; 

Such is the rage of battle. 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly, 

Before the approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan BuUers. 

Lo, from the shades of death's deep night, * 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring! 
The muffled murderer of Charles * 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting gh(Ssts of Tory fame ; 
Bold Scrimgeour^ follows gallant Grahame,* 
Auld Covenanters shiver. 

* The masked executioner of Charles I 

^' John, Earl of Dundee. 

•= The great Marquis of Montrose. 



224 BURNS'S POEMS. 

(Forgive, forgive, mucli-wronged Montrose ! 
While death and hell engulf thy foes, 
Thou livest on high for ever \) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns ; 
The Tories, Whigs, gave way by turns ; 

But fate the word has spoken: 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can; 

The Tory ranks are broken. 

Oh that my e'en were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cub's undoing! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing. 

What Whig but wails the good Sir James; 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ? 
Not.Piiltney's wealth can Pultney save ; 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave; 

And Stuart bold as Hector. 

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow. 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe. 

And Melville melt in wailing ; 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, " Oh prince, arise ! 

Thy power is all-prevailing. 

For your poor friend, the bard afar. 
He hears, and only hears the war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends. 
The robin in the hedge descends. 

And sober chirps securely. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 225 

ON CAPTAIN GKOSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THPtOUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

0' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel ! 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

0' cauk and keel. 

By some auld houlet-haunted biggin, 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi* deils, they say, Lord save's 1 colleaguin' 

At some black art. 
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer. 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, 
And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 
It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spur tie blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And taen the Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 
lie has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets. 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 



226 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Gf Eve*s first fire he has a cinder; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 
Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gieg, 
The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
The kuife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. 
But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, oh port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'U see him I 
Now, by the powers o' verse and prose I 
Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose I 
VV^hae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say, shame fa' thee. 



WEITTEN IN AN ENVELOPE, 

ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he south or is he north 2 

Igo and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? 

Igo and ago, 
And eaten like a wether haggis? 

Iram, coram, dago. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 2*27 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame*^ 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him! 

Igo and ago, 
As for the deil, he daiirna steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye yet in glad possession, 

Igo and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESI- 
DENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

LoN'G life, my lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaithed by hungered Highland boors; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes, as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water ; 
Then up amang the lakes and seas 
They'll mak what rules aud laws they please ; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin'; 



228 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Some Washington again may head them, 

Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, 

Till God knows what may be effected 

When by such heads and hearts directed: 

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 

May to patrician rights aspire I 

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 

To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 

And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 

To bring them to a right repentance, 

To cowe the rebel generation. 

And save the honour o' the nation? 

They and be damned ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day? 

Far less to riches, power, or freedom, 

But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear 1 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet. 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour ; 

Let wark and hunger mak them sober 1 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. 

Let them in Drury-lane be lessoned ! 

And if the wives and dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors and yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deucks and geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

And gar the tattered gipsies pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you. 

And in my house at hame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 229 

At my right ban' assigned yoiir seat 
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate; 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
And till ye come — Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub. 
June 1, Anno Mundi 5790. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON 
THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry moni, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bower, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rt\joice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppressed. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, • 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang; 
But I, the queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang ! 

I was the queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the mom, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 



230 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false womaii I 

My sister and my fae, , 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall gae I 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pityhig e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine !• 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Eemember him for me I 

Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the uext flowers that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 
The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Looked on the fading yellow woods 

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a eraigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewailed his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely taen. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 231 

He leaned him to an' ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mouldering down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touched his tremhling harp, 

And as he tuned his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting through their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scattered birds that faintly sing 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shaU greet the sprmg, 

Nae summer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

rVe seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

And last (the sum of a' my griefs ! ) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride! his couiUiy's stay ! 
In weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



232 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Awake thy last sad voice; my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round ; 
Though oft I turned the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the moniing sun. 

That melts the fogs in limpid air; 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

Oh ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time; 
Must thou, the noble, generous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime I 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe! 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencaim, 

And a' that thou hast done for me I" 



LINES, 

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BAKT., OF WHITEFOORD 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God revere st. 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fearest 



BURNS'S POEMS. 233 

To tliee this votive offering I impart, 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, loved ; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approved. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown 



THE WHISTLE. 

As the authentic proge history of the whistle is curious, I 
shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when 
she came to Scotland with our James VI., there came over 
also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prow- 
ess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little 
ebony whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies he 
laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, 
every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, 
was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The 
Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single 
defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and 
challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of 
trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. 
After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane 
was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, an- 
cestor of the present worthy baronet of that name ; who, after 
three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandina- 
vian under the table, 

*' And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill." 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards 
lost the whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had 
raarriedasister of Sir Walter's. On Friday, the 16th of Oct., 
1790, at Friar's-Carse, the whistle was once more contended 
for,asrelatedin the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie, 
of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal de- 
scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
whistle, and in whose family it continued ; and Alexander 
Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the 
great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried oflf the hard- 
won honours of the field. 

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the north, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. 



234 BURNS*S POEMS. 

Old Loda,» still rueing the arm of f'ingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall : 
"This whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o*er, 
And drink them to hell, sir ! or ne'er see me more I" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventured, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert victorious, the trophy has gained. 
Which now in his house has for ages remained ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renewed. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarragh, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep -read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
ril conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More.b 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.*' 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 

But he ne'er turned his back on his foe or his friend, 

Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the fiqld. 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 

* See Ossiaii's Caric-thura. 

^ See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



BURN^'S POEMS. 235 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
A.nd wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a core. 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turned o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore twas the way that their ancestor did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; 
A high ruling elder to wallow in wine I 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend ; 
Though fate said, a hero shull perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phoebus, and down fell the knight. 

.Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublime ! 

Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day !" 



236 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ELEGY ON MISS BUKNET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 

Nor envious death so triumphed in a blow, 

As that which laid the accomplished Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm, Eliza is no more i 

Ye heathy wastes, inmixed with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 
And not a muse in honest gri?f bewail? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres; 

But, like the sun eclipsed at mornmg tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sank, a prey to grief and care ! 

So decked the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THIKD EPISTLE TOME. GKAHAM, OF FINTEY. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg. 

About to beg a pass for leave to beg; 

Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and depressed, 

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) 

Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? 

It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 237 

And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the hull thy care have found. 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground. 
Thou givest the ass his hide, the snail his shell. 
The envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his cell; 
Thy minions, kings, defend, conjrol, devour, 
In all the omnipotence of rule and power ; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
^ Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug ; 
Even silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts ; 
But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child, the bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot, too, more helpless still: 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Almathea's horn : 
No nerve's olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur; 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears the unbroken blast from every side: 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! appalled I venture on the name. 
Those cut- throat bandits in the paths of fame: 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes I 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: 
Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife. 
The hapless poet flounders on through life; 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once iuspired, 



238 EUHNS'S POEMS. 

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 

Dead even resentment for his injured page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage I 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased, 
For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

Oh Dulness ! portion of the truly blessed ! ' 

Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest I 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easily picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And through disastrous night they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 
Not so the idle muses' mad- cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, fatlier's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; 
Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears. 
And left us darkling in a world of tears. 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer! 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down I 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death I 



BFRNS'S POEMS. 239 

FOURTH EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM, OF 
FINTR^, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tiibute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night : 
If aught that giver from ray mind efface, 
If I that giver's bounty e'er. disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



THE EIGHTS OF WOMAN, 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTBNELLE 
ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. 

While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan. 
And even children lisp the rights of man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The rights of woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connexion, 
One sacred right of woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its bead, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward the impending storm. 

Our second right, but needless here, is caution, 
To keep the right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong itj 'tis decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polished days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. 



240 BURNS*S POEMS. 

Now, thank our stars I these Gothic times are fled; 
Now, well-bred men, and you are all well-bred, 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For right the third, our last, our best, our dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the rights of kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own, 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blessed sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life, immortal love. 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares, 
When awful beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah I ca ira ! the majesty of woman ! 



A VISION. 

As I stood by you ruthless tower, 
■ Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
There the howlet mourns in her ivy bower. 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruined wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 241 

By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, 
And by the moonbeam shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His darin' look had daunted me; 
And on his bonnet graved was plain. 

The sacred posy, " Libertie 1" 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might roused the slumbering dead to hear ; 

But oh! it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 
He weeping wailed his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play : 
I winna venture't in my rhymes. 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead! 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies I 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war. 

That wont to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing ! 
n 



242 BURNS 'S POEMS. 

ON PASTORAL POETEY. 

Ha.il Poesy! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk ennerved 

*Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och! owre aft thy joes hae starved, 

Mid a' thy favours I 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trumps heroic clang, 
And sock or huskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
iEschylus pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the kuurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barhauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's hallats, Maro's catches; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

0' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 
* That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear. 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air. 

And rural grace; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan : 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan 
Thou need na jouk behintthe hallan, 

A chiel sae clever; 
Tlie teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's foreverl 



BURNS'S POEMS. 243 

Tlioii paints auld nature to tlie nines, 

In tliy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream throiigli myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly hreezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey. 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At clo^e o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swellt; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

0' witchin' love ; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



TO MR. MAXWELL, OF TERRAUGHTY, 

ON HIS BIBTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwell's veteran chief ! 
Health, aye unsoured by care or grief: 
Inspired, I turned fate's sybil leaf 

This natal mom ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes three score eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. " 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthened days on this blessed morrow, 



244 BURNS'S POEMS. 

May desolation's laiig teethed harrow, 
Nine miles an hour, 

Bake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 
In brunstane stoure ! 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny. 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie 1 Lord be near ye. 
And then the deil he dauma steer you : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye : 

For me, shame fa' me. 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me! 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OP 
THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING 
WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them pai't, 

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies I 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 

What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 

The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee 
I'll share. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 245 

THE TKEE OF LIBERTY. 

Heard ye o' tlie tree o' France, 

I watua what's the uame^ o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

W^eel Europe kens the fame o't. 
It stands where ance the B as tile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man, 
When superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading stings, man. 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its vktues a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute, 

It maks him ken himsel', man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 

He's greater than a lord, man, 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

0' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth, 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man ; 
To gie the sweetest blush o' health, 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friends^ man ; 
And he wha acts the traitor's part, 

It to perdition sends, man. 

My blessings aye attend the chiel, 

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man. 
And stawed a branch, spite o' the deil, 

Frae yont the western waves, man. 
Fair virtue watered it wi' care. 

And now she sees wi' pride, man. 
How weel it buds and blossoms there. 

Its branches spreading wide, man. 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' virtue thrive, man; 
The courtly vermin's banned the tree. 

And gi*at to see it thrive, man; 



246 EURNS'S POEBIS. 

King Loui' tliought to out it down, 
When it was unco sma', man; 

For this the watchman cracked his crown, 
Cut aff his head and a', man. 

A wicked crew syne, on a time, 

Did tak a solemn aith, man, 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime', 

I wat they pledged their faith, man : 
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade, 

Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o' the trade. 

And wished they'd been at hame, man. 
For Freedom, standing by the tree, 

Her sons did loudly ca', man ; 
She sang a sang o' liberty, 

Which pleased them ane and a', man. 
By her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran, her foes gied chase, 

And banged the despot weel, man. 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak. 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack herjoke, 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round, 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man. 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 

Without this tree, alake this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late. 

To feed the titled knave, man ; 
And a' the comfort we're to get, 

Is that ayont the grave, man. 
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow. 

The warld would live in peace, man; 
The sword would help to mak a plough, 

The din o' war would cease, man. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 247 

Like bretliren in a common cause, 

We'd on each other smile, man ; 
And equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 

Sic hale some dainty cheer, man ; 
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet, 

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
Syne let us pray, auld England may 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; 
And blithe we'll sing, and hail the day 

That gave us liberty, man. 



TO GENERAL DUMOUEIER. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

You'ee welcome to despots, Dumourier; 

You're welcome to despots, Dumourier : 

How does Dampiere do? 

Ay, and Bcurnonville too ? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dumomier? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be damned, no doubt, Dumourier. 



MONODY 

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glis- 
tened ; 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, 
How dull is that eai* which to flattery so listened ! 



248 BURNS'S POEMS. 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest affection removed; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved. 
Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 
We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, 

We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. 
We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; 

Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



SONNET 

ON THE DEATH OP CAPTAIN RIDDBL, OP GLENRIDDEL, 
APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ! 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend 2 

That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddel 
lies ! 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the virtues weeping on his bier : 
The man of worth, who has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, 

Me, memory of my loss will only meet. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 249 

LINES 

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend wliom wild from wisdom's way, 

The fumes of wine infuriate send, 
(Not moony madness more astray) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was the insensate frenzied part, 
^ Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! 
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast; 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunlven roar. 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more ; 
Where tiny thieves not destined yet to swing. 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 
To tell Maria her Esopus* fate. 

" Alas 1 1 feel I am no actor here !" * 
'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! 
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 
Will make thy hair though erst from gipsy polled, 
13^ oarber woven, and by barber sold. 
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
The hero of the mimic scene, no more 
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 
Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms. 
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 

'^ The person represented to be the writer of this pieco 
ifas an actor, named Williamson. 



250 BUHNS^S POEMS. 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountam high, 
And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 
Blessed Highland bonnet I once my proudest dress, 
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,* 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 
The crafty colonel** leaves the tartaned lines 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head. 
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display, 
That veni, vidi, vici^ is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; 
Though there his heresies in church and state 
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 
And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger? 
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger; 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 
He dips in gall unmixed his eager pen. 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
Who christened thus ^J aria's lyre divine, 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 
And even the abuse of poesy abused; 
Who called her verse a parish workhouse, made 
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or strayed I) 
A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my racked repose I 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
Thiit straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 
And verrained gipsies littered heretofore. 
Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour; 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
'^ Gillespie, 
b Colonel M'Dowal, of Logan, 



BUENS'S POEMS. 251 

Thou knowest the vu'Uies cannot hate thee worse; 
The vices also, must they chib then- curse ? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? 
Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
Who on my fair one satire's yengeance hurls ? 
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,- 
And dare the war with all of woman bom : 
For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 
My periods that de cyphering defy. 
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply- 



IMPEOMPTU 

OIT MRS. riddel's BIRTH-DAY. 

Old Winter, with his frosty heard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred : 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 

To coimterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no m.ore to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day I 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me. 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.** 

*"Tis done !" says Jove; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



252 BtJRNS's POEMS. 

VERSES TO MISS GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

Heke, where the Scottish muse hnmortal lives. 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, 

Accept. the gift; though humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



THE VOWELS. 



'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are plied, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws. 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 

And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First entered A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deformed, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head looked backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai/ 

Reluctant, E stalked in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigned. 

The cobwebed Gothic dome resounded, Y! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdained reply : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 253 

The pedant swung Ms felon cudgel round, 
And knocked the groaning vowel to the ground! 

In rueful apprehension entered 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe : 
The inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learned new mysteries of his art ; 
So grim, deformed, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest fiiend and brother scarcely knew! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipped his right, 
Baptized him eu, and kicked him from his sight. 



TO CHLORIS. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling eai* attend 

The moralising muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant aims) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay mom of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a faher flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 

Still much is left behind ; - 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 
Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 
The joys refined of sense and taste, 

With evei*y muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blessed, 

These joys could he improve. 



254 EURNS'S POEMS. 

VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

Ae day, as Deatii, that grusorae carle, 
Was driving to the ither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glowerin' at the bitches, 
*' -By God, I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'mang the spiritual care present them, 
Without, at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this damned infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
"Lord God !" quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man T want,i' faith!" 
And quickly stoppit Rankme's breath. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOT 
OF DUNrOP. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 
But distress with horrors arming. 

Thou hast also known too well I 
Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. 

See it prostrate on the clay. 
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird I a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure. 

Finer feelings can be^sfow ; 
Chords that vibrate sv/eetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 255 

ADDEESS, 

SPOKEN BY MISS FO^'TENELT.E ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 

A prologue, epilogue, or some such matter, 

'Tyvould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 

So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 

And last, my prologue business slily hinted. 

*' Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

" I know your bent ; these are no laughing times : 

Can you, but Miss, I own I have my fears, 

Dissolve in pause, and sentimentaltears ; 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

Waving on high the desolating brand, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" 

I could no more : askance the creatm'e eying, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh,that's poz ; nay more, the world shall know it 
And so, your servant ! gloomy master poet 1 
Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 
That misery's another word for grief; 
I also think, so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoyed. 

Thou man of crazy cai-e and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doomed to that sorest task of man alive, 
To make three guineas do the work of live : 
Laugh in misfortune's face, the beldam witch ! 
Say you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measurest in desperate thought, a rope, thy neck; 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou bo cured, thou silly, moping elf I 
Laugh at her follies, laugh e'en a't thyself: 



256 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder, that's your grand specific. 
To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, 
WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes Eolian strains between: 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 
And sees, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



BALLADS ON MR. HERON'S ELECTIONS. 

Whom will you send to London town, 

To parliament and a' that? 
Or wha in a' the country round 

The best deserves to fa' that? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 257 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Through Galloway and a* that; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a* that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, and a' that. 

Though wit and worth in either sex, 

St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selku-k fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that I 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk ? 

And is't against the law that ? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that I 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that ; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for fe' that! 
For we're not to be bought and sold 
Like naigs, and iiowt, and a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 
KeiTough tree's laird, and a' that, 



258 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Our representative to be, 
For weel he's worthy a* that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blessed that saw that. 



THE ELECTION. 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be biclserin' there; 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

And oh, how the heroes will swear ! 
And there will be Murray commander^ 

And Gordon the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 

Sae knit in alliance and sin. 

And there will be black-lippit Johnny, 

The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
An' he get na hell for his haddin', 

The de'il gets na justice ava' ; 
And there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriff ; 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
And there will be Cardoness, esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil "the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty, 
New christening towns far and near; 

Abjuring their democrat doings, 
By kissing the a — e o' a peer ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 259 

And there will be Kenmure sae generous, 
Whose honour is proof to the storm, 

To save them from stark reprobation, 
He lent them his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Eedcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An' 'twere na' the cost o* the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae famed for his gratefu' return? 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

To say in SL Stephen's the morn. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 

Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true ; 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 
And there will be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note ; 
The deil ane but honours them highly, 

The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 

And there will be wealthy young Richard, 

Dame Fortune should hing by the neck; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing. 

His merit had won him respect: 
And there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Though nabobs yet men of the first. 
And there will be Coilieston's whiskers. 

And Quintin, o' lads not the worst. 

And there will be stamp-office Johnny, 

Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; 
And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

And there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; 
And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 

His worth might be sample for a*. 
And can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys ; 
Our flattery we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise; 



260 BURNS*S POEMS. 

And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
• And also Barskimming's guid knight, 
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 
Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

And there frae the Niddisdale borders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; 
Tough Johnny, staunch Geordie, and Walie, 

That griens for the fishes and loaves ; 
And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 

Sculduddery and he will be there, 
And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king; 
And hey for the sanctified M y, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stored; 
He foundered his horse among harlots, 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

Tune — " Buy broom besoms." 

Wha will buy my troggin, 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buybraw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

'J'here's a noble earl's 

Fame and high renown, 
For an auld sang : 

It's thought the gnids were stown. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 261 

Here's the worth o* Broughton 

In a needle's ee ; 
Here's a reputation 

Tmt by Balmaghie. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald, 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's its stuff and lining, 

Cardoness's head ; 
Fine for a sodger 

A' the wale o* lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's a little wadset 

Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
Pawned in a gin-shop 

Quenching holy drouth. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's armorial bearings, 

Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
The crest, an auld crab-apple 

Eotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle, 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's the worth and wisdom 

Collieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here is Murray's fragments 

O' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 



262 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin? 
If to buy ye're slack, 
Homie's tumin' chapman, 
He'll buy a' the pack. 
Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PMYSTER, DUM;FRIES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal: 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty warld were it. 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve ! 
(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret; 

Syne, wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her stUl ; 
Aye wavering like the willow- wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that cursed carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on ! 

He 's aff like fire. 



BURNS*S POEMS. 263 

Ah Nick! all Nick ! it is nae fair, 
First showing us the temptiug ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rai*e, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

0' hell's damned waft 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure I 

Soon heel's-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle. 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbef s tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a* intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil I 

Amen! amen! 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned; 

Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave. 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

I'hy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



264 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOUEITE CHILD. 

Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of tha graye, 

My dear little angel, for ever ; 
For ever, oh no ! let not man be a slave, 

His hopes from existence to sever. 

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head, 
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow, 

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, 
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraphform, 
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 

When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter 
storm. 
And nestled thee close to that bosom. 

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death, 

Eeclined on the lap of thy mother, 
When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled 
breath. 

Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest. 
Where suffering no longer can harm ye. 

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the 
blessed. 
Though an endless existence shall charm thee. 

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn. 
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow, 

O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn. 
And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 



TO MK. ]\{ITCHELL, 

COLLECTOiB OP EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796i 

Fkiekd of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal, 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi* a* his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches 1 



BURNS*S POEMS. 265 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning. 

To thee and thine : 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket. 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turned a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye I 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY, 

A NEW BALLAD. 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 

Or were more in fury seen, sir, 
Than Hwixt Hal and Bob for the famous job, 

Who should be faculty's dean, sir. 



266 BURNS'S POEMS. 

This Hal for genius, wit, ajid lore, 

Among the first was numbered ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remembered. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place . 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness. 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, , 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purged was the sight 

Of a son of circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the angel met, 

That met the ass of Bdaam. 



THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT. 

Oh meikle do I rue, fause love ! 

Oh sairly do I rue, 
That e'er I heard your flattering tongue, 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh I hae tint my rosy cheeks. 
Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 

And I hae lost my lightsome heart 
That little wist a fa'. 

Now I maun thole the sc^mfu* sneer 

O' mony a saucy quean; 
When, gin the truth were a' but kent, 

Her life's been waur than mine. 



BUBNS'S POEMS. 267 

Whene'er my father thinks on me, 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mither, she has taen the bed 

Wi' thinking on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear my lather's foot, 

My heart wad burst wi' pain ; 
When'er I meet my raither's e'e, 

My tears rin down like rain. 

Alas I sae sweet a tree as love 

Sic bitter fruit should bear ; 
Alas ! that e'er a bonnie face 

Should draw a sauty tear! 



VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE 
WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith 

Ae smiling simmer-mom I strayed, 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs, 

Where Unties sang and lambkins played, 
I sat me down upon a craig. 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below. 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 

And troubled, like his wintry wave. 
And deep, as soughs the boduig wind 

Among his caves, the sigh he gave : 
" And came ye here, my son," he cried, 

" To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 

There was a time, it's nae lang syne. 
Ye might hae seen me in my pride, 

When a' my banks sae bravely saw 
Their woody pictures in my tide ; 



268 BURNS'S POEMS. 

When hanging beech and spreading elm 
Shaded my stream sae clear and coolj 

And stately oaks their twisted arms 
Threw broad and dark across the pool : 

When glinting, through the trees, appeared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane. 

" Alas !" said I, " what ruefu' chance 

Has twined ye o' your stately trees 2 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 

Has stripped the deeding o' your braes ? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters blight in early spring? 
Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ?'* 

" Nae eastlin blast," the sprite ireplied ; 

" It blew na here sae fierce and fell. 
And on my dry and halesome banks 

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man!" the genius sighed, 

As through the cliffs he sank him dowQ : 
" The worm that gnawed my bonnie trees. 

That reptile wears a ducal crown." 



ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's grace ; 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted ; 
The very name of Douglas blasted ; 

His that inverted glory. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore ; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt ; 
Follies and crimes have stained the name. 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, 

From ought that's good exempt. 



IMPKOMPTU ON WILLIE STEWAET. 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 
„ That's half sae welcome's thou ai-t. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we maun renew it; 
The tappit-hen o;ae bring her ben, 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack. 

Ilk action may he rue it; 
May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 



TO MISS JESSY LEWAKS, 

WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. "> 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer : 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill ; but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind. 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard. 



270 BURNS*S POEMS. 

VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

Oh could I give you India's wealth. 

As I this trifle send, 
Because thy joy in both would be, 

To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconean stream; 
Then take what gold could never buy. 

An honest bard's esteem. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OP GLASS IN HIS HOUSB. 

Blessed be M'Murdo to his latest day, 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ; 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair ! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 



REMORSE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison, the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind^ 

Has this to say, " It was no deed of mine!" 

But when to all the evil of misfortune, 

This sting is added, " Blame thy foolish self !" 

Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse, 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt, 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 



BUBNS'S POEMS. 271 

Oh, burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonising throbs ; 
And after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
Oh, happy, happy, enviable man ! 
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



JOHNNY PEEP. 

Burns was one day at a cattle-raarkct, held in a town in 
Cumberland, and in the bustle that prevails on these oc- 
casions, he lost sight of some of the friends who accom- 
panied him. He pushed to a tavern, opened the door of 
every room, and merely looked in, till at last he came to one 
in which three jolly Cumberland blades were enjoying them- 
selves. As he withdrew his head, one of them shouted, 
" Come in, Johnny Peep !" Burns obeyed the call, seated 
himself at the table, and in a short time was the life and 
soul of the party. In the course of their merriment, it was 
proposed that each should write a stanza of poetry, and put it 
with half-a-crown below the candlestick, with this stipula- 
tion, that the best poet was to have his half-crown returned 
while the other three were to be expended to treat the party. 
What the others wrote has now sunk into oblivion, but the 
stanza of the Ayrshire ploughman ran as follows : 

Here am I Johnny Peep, 
I saw three sheep. 

And these three sheep saw me ; 
Half-a-crown a piece 
Will pay for their fleece, 

And so Johnny Peep gets free. 

A roar of laughter followed, and while the palm of victory 
was unanimously voted to Burns, one of the Englishmen ex- 
claimed, " In God's name, who are you ?" An explanation 
ensued, and the happy party did not separate the same day 
they met. 



EPIGRAMS. 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 
Oh Death ! hadst thou but spared his life 

Whom we this day lament, 
We freely wad exchanged the wife. 

And a' been weel content 
E'en as he is, cauld in his graflf, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Talc thou the carlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



ANOTHER ON HIS WIDOW. 
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When deprived of her husband she loved so well. 
In respect for the love and affection he showed her, 
She reduced him to dust, and she drank off the powder 
But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion. 
When called on to order the funeral direction, 
Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not to show her respect, but to save the expense! 



ON AN ILLITERATE GENTLEMAN WHO 
HAD A FINE LIBRARY. 

Free through the leaves, yemaggots, make your wind- 
ings ; 
But for the owner's sake, oh spare the bindings ! 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 
Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, 
Been Jeany Scott, as thou art; 
The bravest heart on English ground, 
Hnd yielded like a coward. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 273 

ON CAPTAIN GEOSE, THE CELEBKATED 
ANTIQUARY. 
The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip ! ai the summons, old Satan came lying ; 
But when he approached where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each hed-post with its burden a-groaning,» 
Astonished, confounded, cried Satan, " By God 
I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load." 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATIONS OF 
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 
Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan, proceed no further : 
'Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther ! 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF 

MISS BURNS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, 

Lovely Bums has charms, confess I 
True it is, she had one failing; 
Had a woman ever less ? 



WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN 
AT CARRON. 
We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise : 
But whan we tirled at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 

Your billy Satan s air us I 

* Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally 
himself, with the greatest good humour, on the singular ro- 
tundity of his figure. 

T 



274 BURNS'S POEMSi 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT, 

On being asked why God had made Miss Davies so little, 
and Mrs. — - so large. 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

And why so huge the granite ? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

The higher value on it. ^ 



FliAGMENT. 

The black-headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted owre height and owre howe : 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



OK INCIVILITY SHOWN HIM AT 
INVERARY.* 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride, 

And Highland scab and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

*Twas surely in his anger. 

* Burns, accompanied by a friend, having gone to Inverary 
at a time when some company were there on a visit to his 
Grace the Duke of Argyle, finding himself and his companion 
entirely neglected by the innkeeper, whose whole attentioD 
seemed to be occupied with the visiters Of his grace, ex- 
pressed his disapprobation of the incivility with which he 
was treated in the above lines. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 275 

HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY. 
Composed and repeated by Burns, to the master of the 
house, on taking leave at a place in the Highlands where he 
had been hospitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come, 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, 

Thau just a Highland welcome. 



LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. 

Kemble, thou curest my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flowed. 



ON THE KIRK AT LAMINGTON. 

A CAULD day December blew, 
A cauld kirk, and in't but few, 
A caulder minister never spak ; 
They'll a' be warm ere I come back. 



THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT 
Spoken in reply to a gentleman who sneered at the suf- 
ferings of Scotland for conscience-sake, and called the Solemn 
League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical. 

The Solemn League and Covenant 
Cost Scotland blood, cost Scotland tears : 

But it sealed freedom's sacred cause ; 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



ON A CERTAIN PARSON'S LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave ; 

And sure they do not lie. 



276 BURNS'S POEMS. 

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF THE 

EARL OF * * ♦ * 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? 

Flit, * * * * and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. 
The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE EARL OF * * * * 

No Stewart art thou, * * * * 
The Stewarts all wer^ brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools. 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, oh * * * * 
Through many a far-famed sire ! 

So ran the far-famed Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



TO THE SAME, 

ON THB AUTHOR BEING THREATBNKD WITH HIS RESENT- 
MENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, * * * * 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



ON AN EMPTY FELLOW, 

WHO, IN COMPANY, ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION WITH AN 
ACCOUNT OP HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast, 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen : 

An insect is still but an insect at most. 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen ' 



BURNS S POEMS. 277 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

•N THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAL THANESGIYING FOB ▲ 
NAVAL VICTORY. 

Ye liypocrites ! are these your pranks ? 
To murder men and gie God thanks! 
For shame ! gie o'er, proceed no further : 
God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 



THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. 
Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt, 
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 
Thebe's death in the cup, sae heware ! 

Nay, more, there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 

# 

EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

On refusing to dine with him, after having been promised 
the first of company, and the first of cookery. Dec. 17, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF POBTER. 

Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



2^8 BUENS'S POEMS. 

THE CEEED OF POVEBTY. 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 
And mean thy fortunes he ; 

Bear this in mind • he deaf and hlind; 
Let great folks hear and see. 



TO MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURITE CBABACTEB. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, hut thanks to nature, 
Thou art acting hut thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spuming nature, torturing art; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part 



TO JOHN TAYLOB. 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was hut a sorry walker-; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and honnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod, 

I'll pay you like my master. 
Ramage*s, 3 o'clock. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 279 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE 
TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The greybeard,old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay FoUy to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But folly has raptures to give. 



THE TOAST.* 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we 

lost! 
That we lost, did I say .^ nay, by Heaven, that we found; 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King I 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be crammed, 
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damned ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



EXCISEMEN UNIVERSAL. 

VTRITTEN ON A TVINDOW. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
*Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause a hearing. 
What ore your landlords' rent-rolls? teazing ledgers: 
What premiers, what ? even monarchs' mighty gaugers : 
Nay, what are priests, those aeeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen ? 

* At- a dinner of the Dumfries Volunteers, in honour of 
Rodney's victory of the 12th of April, J79JJ, Burns, who was 
present, was called upon for a song. He replied by repeating 
the above. 



280 BURNS'S POEMS. 

WRITTEN IN A LADYS POCKET-BOOK. 
Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
' Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESST STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny ; 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die. 



ON JESSY LEWARS. 

Talk not to me of savages 

Erom Afric's burning sun, 
No savage e'er could rend my heart, 

As Jessy thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not even to view the heavenly choir. 

Would be so blessed a sight 

Fill me with the rosy wine. 
Call a toast, a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn Death's dart aside ? 

It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 

But rarely seen since nature's birth, 

Tije natives of the sky : 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 



BURNS^S POEMS. 281 

GKACES BEFORE MEAT. 

SoMi: hae meat and canna eat, 
And some would eat that want it, 

But we hae meat and we can eatj 
Sae let the Lord be thankit. 



Oh Thou, who kindly dost proTide 

For every creature's want I 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please Thee, heavenly guide. 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Oh Thou, in whom we live and move. 

Who madest the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove. 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, power above. 

Still grant us, with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love. 

And we desire no more. 



EPITAPHS. 



ON THE AUTHOE'S FATHEE. 

Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious reverence and attend ; 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the generous friend: 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For even his failings leaned to virtue's side."' 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIEE. 

As father Adam first was fooled, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman ruled, 
The devil ruled the woman. 



ON A CELEBEATED EULING ELDEE. 

Hebe souter Hood in death does sleep : 

To hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satan gie him thy gear to keep 

He'll hand it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lies Jamie's banes: 
Oh Death, it's my opinion, ' 

Thou ne'er took such a bletherin' bitch 
Into thy dark dominion. 

* Goldsmith. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 283 

ON WEE JOHNNY. 

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY,' 

Whoe'er thou ai't, oh reader, know, 
That death has murdered Johnny ! 

And here his body lies fu' low, 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desh-es to ken, 
To some other warl' 
Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 
S trong ale was ablution, 
Small beer persecution, 

A dram was mementi mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 
Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much loved, much honoured name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er ;2lade cold. 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blessed ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his, with vu'tue warmed, 
Few heads with knowledge so informed ; 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



284 BURNS'S POEMS. 

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. 

•The poor man weeps! here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blamed : 

But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May I be saved or damned ! 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, 
FIFESHIRE. 

Hebe lie Willie Michie's banes. 

Oh, Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie- him the schoolin* of your weans ; 

For clever deils he'll mak *em ! 



ON MR. W. CRUICKSHANKS. 



Honest Will's to heaven gane, 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay. 
In English nane e'er kent them. 



ON WAT 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damned him 

When laid ia his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine." 

A starved reptile cries ; 
" And his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 



FOR WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts youVe gotten ; 

You've got a prize o' Willie's heart, 
For deil a bit o't's rotten. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 285 

ON W 

Stop thief! dame nature cried to death, 
As WiUie drew his latest hreath ; 
You have my choicest model taen : 
How shall I make a fool again ? 



ON THE SAME. 

Rest gently, turf, upon his breast. 
His chicken heart's so tender ; 
But rear huge castles on his head, 
His skull will prop them under. 



ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON, BREWER, 
DUMFRIES. 

Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels ; 
He's blessed, if as he brewed he drank, 

In upright honest morals. 



ON JOHN BUSHBY, WRITER, DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose. 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are grieved, 

This consolation's given. 
She's from a world of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



286 BURNS*S POEMS. 

ON THE BIKTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OP FAMILY 0ISTRESS. 

Sweet floweret, pledge o* meikle love. 

And ward o' monie a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair I 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas I the sheltering tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving shower, 

The bitter frost and snaw I 

May He, the Friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother-plant. 
And heal her cruel wounds I 

But late she flourished, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unsheltered and forlorn. 

Blessed be thy bloom, thou lovely gem ! 

Unscathed by ruffian hand ; 
And from thee many a parent- stem 

Arise to deck our land. 



40HN HElfDERaON, PRIKTER, BELFAST. 



SONGS. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Ttww—" Invercauld's Reel." 

Oh Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye wad na been sae sby; 

For lack o' gear ye ligbtly^me, 
But, trowtb, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on tbe moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae tbe name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 

But sorrow tak him thaf s sae mean, 
Although his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 
That looks sae proud and high. 

Although a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head another airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, , 
Though hardly he, for sense or lear. 
Be better than the kye. 



BURNS s Songs. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gae her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS. 
Tune — " Laggan Burn." 
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Guid night and joy be wi' thee ; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower- door, 

To tell thee that I loe thee. 
Oh dinn a think, my pretty pink, 

But I can live without thee ; 
I vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt aye sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; 
I'll be as fre^ informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee. 
Depending on some higher chance. 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate. 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will jelieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it ; 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 
,As lang's I get employment. 

But far-off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And aye until ye try them : 
Though they seem fair, still have a care, 
. They may prove waur than I am. 



BURNS S SONGS. C 

But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that loes his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 

t 

YOUNG PEGGY. 
Tune — *' Last time I came o'er the muir." . 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning ; 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each freshening flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm the admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is, as the evening, mild, 

When feathered tribes are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her ; 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain 

The poisoned tooth to fasten. 

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, 

From every ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly-favoured youth, 

The destinies intend her: 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom, 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

MONTGOMEKrs PEGGY. 
Tune—'' Galla- Water." 

Although my bed were ii^on muir 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 
Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy, 

Were I a baron proud and high, 
And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 
The sharin't with Montgomery's Peg^y 



BONNIE PEGGY ALISON. 

Tune — " Braes o* Balquhidder," 

CHORUS. 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blessed as I am,.0 ! 

When in my arms wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, 1 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O, 

And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never, ! 



BURNS S SONGS. 

JOHN BARLEYCOKN. 

A BALLAD. 

There were three kings into tbe east, 
Three kings both great and high; 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and ploughed him down, 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And showers began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong ; 
His head weel armed wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn entered mild, 

When be grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Showed he began to fail. 
His colour sickened more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgelled him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turned him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim ; 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



BURNS S SONGS. 

They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him farther woe ; 
And still, as signs of life appeared, 

They tossed him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crushed him 'tween two stones. 

And they hae taen his very hearf s blood, 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Though the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man's a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



THE KIGS O' BARLEY. 
Tune — " Corn rigs are bonnie.'* 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa' to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi* sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me through the barley. 



BURNS S SONGS. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down wi* right good will 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I kenned her heart was a' my ain ; 

I loved her most sincerely ; 
I kissed her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I locked her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley I 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blithe wi* comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae beenjoyfij' gatherin' gear; 

I hae J)eeri happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Though three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Com rigs, and barley rigs. 
And com rigs are bonnie ; 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune—** I had a horse, I had nae mair." 

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 

The moorcock sprmgs, on whining wings, 
Amang the blooming heather : 



» BURNS S SONGS. 

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the rnoon shines bright, when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The patridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet 

Thus every kind tiieir pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander ; 
Avaunt, away I the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry, 

The fluttering gory pinion. 

But Peggy, dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited tl;iorn. 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly pressed, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

Mv fair, my lovely charmer [ 



BURNS S SONGS. ^ 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 
Tune — " Yon wild mossy mountains." 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys through the hea- 
ther to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his 
reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys through the hea- 
ther to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his 
reed. > 

Not Gowrie's rich vallies, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o* yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely and sequestered stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 
For there, by a lanely and sequestered stream, 
Resides a sweef lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unlieeded flee the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, although she is fair; 
0' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But Iloe the dear lassie because she loes me. 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I loe the dear lassie because she loes me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ! 
And when wit and refinement hae polished her darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 
And when wit and refinement hae polished her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 



10 BURNS*8 SONGS. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling 

e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the- heart beating love as I'm clasped in her arms, 
Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasped in her 

arms, 
Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 
Time — " Up wi* the ploughman." 
The ploughman he's a bonnie lad. 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman I 
Of a* the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary ; 

Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearie i 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 
And I will dress his o'erlay ; 

I will make my ploughman's bed, 
And cheer him late and early. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddip dancin'. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 

And siller buckles glancin'; 
A guid blue bonnet on his head ; 

And oh ! but he was handsome ! 
Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fu', 

Till I met wi' the ploughman. 



BURNS*S SONGS. 1 1 

MY NANNIE, 0. 
Tune — " My Nannie, O." 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many. O, 

The wintry sun the day has closed, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind hlaws loud and shrill; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal. 

And owre the hills to Nannie, 0. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, 0. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true. 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A country lad is my degree. 
And few there be that ken me, ; 

But what care I how few they be ? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, 0. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 

And I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blithe that bauds his pleugh, 
And has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, and love my Nannie, 0. 



12 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE CURE FOB ALL CARE. 

rwwe—" Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother, his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air I 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter informed me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts !"* a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black 

gown ? * 

And, faith, I agree with the old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harassed with care I 

* Young's "Night Thought?." 



BURNS'S SONGS. 13 

ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Tione — *• If he be a butchei*neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe lier shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weel-faured face, 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een I 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
And she's twa glancin* sparklin' een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between. 

And shoots each head above each bush ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

She's spotless as the flowering thorn, 
With flowers so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flowery May adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
And she's twa glancin* sparklin' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 
When flower-reviving rains are past ; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
Her forehead's like the showery bow, 

When shining sunbeams intervene, 
And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 

And she's twa glancin* sparklin* een. 
Her voice is like the evening thrush 

That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 
While his mate sits nestling in the bush ,* 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen. 
They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 



14 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Her teeth, are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces n^svly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossomed bean, 

When PhcBbus sinks beneath the seas ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin* een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Though matchin' beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in every grace. 
And chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune — "Miss Forbes's fareweel to Banff.*' 

'TwAS even, the dewy fields were green. 

On every blade the pearls hang. 
The zephyr wantoned round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile ; 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving through the garden gay, 
-Or wandering in the lonely wild: 



BURNS'S SONGS. 15 

But woman, nature's darling child! 

There all her chttrms she does compile; 
Even there her other works are foiled 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And ni^tly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



POWEBS CELESTIAL I 
Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless. 

Fair and faultless as your own, 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels! oh protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



IG BURNS*S SONGS. 

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 

Tune — " The deuks dang o'er my daddy T* 

No gentle dames, thougli e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care : 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my highland lassie, 

Oh, were yon hills and vallies mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, 0. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 

Although through foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 

For her I'll dare the billows' roar. 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, 0. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band I 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, 0, 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie, 0. 



BDRNS'S SONGS. 17 

GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 
Tune — "Green grow the rashes." 

CHOBUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O I 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 

Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 

There's nought but care on every han'. 

In every hour that passes, O : 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

The warldly race may riches chase, 
And riches still may fly them, O ; 

And though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
And warldly cares, and warldly men. 

May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0. 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye-'re nought but senseless asses, : 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, 0. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, 0. 



FROM THEE ELIZA. 

rwne— Gilderoy. 

Fbom thee, Eliza, I must go, 
And from my native shore ; 

The cruel Fates between us throw 
A boundless ocean's roar : 



IS BURNS*6 SONGS. 

But boundless oceans, roaring wide. 
Between my love and me, 

They never, never can divide 
My heart and soul from thee ! 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more! 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, ' 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



MENIE. 

Tune — " Johnny's grey breeks.'* 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steeped in merning dews. 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, and like a hawk. 
And wuma let a body be. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the violets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy "the tentie seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 
The stately swan majestic swims, ^ 

- And every thing is blessed but I. 



BURNS*S SONGS. 19 

The shepherd steeks his fauldmg slap. 
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 

Wi* wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blithe waukens hy the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I ham e ward glide. 

Come, winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging hend the naked tree : 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



THE FAEEWELI,. 

TO THE BRETHREN OP ST. JAMES's LODGE, TARBOLTON. 

Tune — •' Good-night, and joy be wi' you a* !" 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear hrothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favoured, ye enlightened few. 

Companions of my social joy ; 
Though I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's sliddery ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, though far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive night; 
Oft, honoured with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall write * 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love 
Unite you in the grand design, 
. Beneath the omniscient eye above. 
The glorious Architect divine I 



20 BURNS'S SONGS. 

That you may keep the unerring line, 
Still rising by the plummet's law, 

Till order bright completely shine, 
Shall be my prayer when far awa'. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear I 
Heaven bless your honoured, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me heite, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a teai*. 

To him, the bard that's far awa'. 



THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST. 
Tune — "Roslin Castle.'* 

The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, pressed with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The autumn mourns her ripening corn. 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave ; 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
•. 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Though death in evei7 shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To' leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 21 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves I 
Farewell, my friends I farewell, my foea! 
My peace with these, my love with those, 
The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



THE BIEKS OF ABERFELDY. 
Tune — " The birks of Abergeldy." 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie will ye go, 
To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays : 
Come let us spend the lightsome days. 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The little birdies blithely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, ^ 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. 
The foamy stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers. 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours. 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blessed wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



22 BURNS S SONGS. 

THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 
Turie — The braes o' Ballochmyle. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decayed on Catrine lea,- 
Nae laverock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sickened on the e'e. 
Through faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air : 
But here, alas I for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



THE BANKS 0' BOON. 
Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight.** 

Ye banks and braes o* bonnie Boon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons through the flowery thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed, never to return! 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its love, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet iTpon its thorny tree; 
And my fause lover stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



BURNS*S SONGS. 23 

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
Tune — "^Bhannerach dhon na chri." 

How pleasant the banks of tlie clear winding Devon* 

With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming 
fairl 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy mom, as it bathes in the dew ; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ; 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England, triumphant, display her proud rose : 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies. 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged. 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens denied success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend . 

The wide world is all before us. 
But a world without a friend. 



24 BURNS*S SONGS. 

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AW A. 

Tune—*' Here's a health to them that's awa," 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause. 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

If s guid to be merry and wise, 

It's guid to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie,* the chief o' the clan. 

Although that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 

And wander their way to the devil I 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Tammie,** the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ; 

Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There'snane ever feared that the truth should be heard 

But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, 

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw i 

Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 

And friends on both sides of the Tweed ; 

And wha wad betray old Albion's rights, 

May they never eat of her bread. 

"- Mr. Fox. b Lord Erskine. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 25 

I AM MY MAMMTS AE BAIRN. 
Tune — " I'm owre young to marry yet." 
I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 
Wi' unco folk I weaiy, sir; 
And if I gang to your house, 
I'm fieyed 'twill make me eerie, sir. 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre young to marry yet; 
I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin 
To tak me frae my mammy yet. 
Hallowmas is come and gane, 

The nights are lang in winter, sir; 
And you and I in wedlock's bands. 
In trouth, I dare na venture, sir. 
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 

Blaws through the leafless timmer, sir; 
But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir. 



HOW LONG AND DREAEY IS THE NIGHT. 
To a Gaelic air. 
How long and dreary is the night 

When I am frae my dearie ! 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn. 
Though I were ne'er sae weaiy. 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie. 
And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 

And now what lands between us lie. 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary I 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie, 
f^ It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



26 BtJRNS'S SONGS. 

BRAVING ANGRY WINTER* S STORMS. 
Tune — "Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairney.' 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 
. First blessed my wondering eyes ; 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonished, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polished blaze. 

Blessed be the wild, sequestered shade, 

And blessed the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first surveyed, 

When first I felt their power I 
The tyrant death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

Tune—'-* M'Pherson's Rant." 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destiniel 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He played a spring, and danced it round, 
Below the gallows-tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath? 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dared his face, and in this place 

X scorn him yet again ! 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, ▼ 

But I'll brave him at a word. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 2? 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie-: 
It bums my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky I 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die I 



BONNIE CASTLE-GOEDON. 

Tune—'* Morag." 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commixed with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ra^ 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, • 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I. leave the tyrant and the slave : 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood: 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave. 

By bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



28 BURNS'S SONGS. 

MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

Tune — "My Peggy's Face." 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway ! 
Who but knows they all decay I 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



EAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 
Tune — " Macgregor of Ruara's Lament.'* 

Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing] 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella strayed deploring : 
" Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joys and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow I 

O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despau* my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing. 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee!" 



BURNS'S SONGS. 29 

HIGHLAND HARRY. 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Tu' stately strode he ou the plain: 
But now he's banished far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 
Oh for him back again ! 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a* the lave gae to their bed, ^ 

I wander dowie up the glen; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 

And aye I wish him back again, 
Oh were some villains hangit high, 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 

My Highland Harry back again. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Twn^ — " Druimion Dubh.** 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whispering spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy sleep the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that's far awa I 



30 BUBNS'S SONGS. 

BLITHE WAS SHE. 
Tune—** -Andro and his Cutty Gun." 
CHORrs. 
Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was she butt and ben : 
Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks o' Ern, 
As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 

The highland hills I've wandered wide. 
And o'er the lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune-—** The Weavers' March." 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, 
By mony a flower and spreading tree. 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was feared my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 31 

My daddie signed my toclier-band. 

To gie the lad that has the land ; 

But to my heart I'll add my hand, 

And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees dehght in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



THE BLUDE-EED EOSE AT YULE MAY 
BLAW. 

Tttwe— " To daunton me." 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flattering tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

' He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow. 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleered e'e : 
That auld man shall never daimton me. 



32 BURNS'S SONGS. 

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune—'-' The Rose-bud." 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

AH on a dewy morning : 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A little linnet fondly pressed, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair ! 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay. 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watched thy early morning. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER 
Tune — " Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden, 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

-And bonuie Castle-Gordon I 



BURNS'S SONGS. 3S 

The trees now naked groaning, 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blithely singing. 

And every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 

When by his mighty warden 
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



WHEN JANUAB' WIND. 
Tune — " The lass that made the bed to me." 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day : 
By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bowed fu' low unto this maid. 

And thanked her for her courtesie, 
I bowed fu' low unto this maid. 

And bade her mak a bed to me. 
She made the bed baith large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips. 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye soun'." 

She snatched the candle in her hand. 

And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 
But I called her quickly back again 

To lay -some raair below my head : 
A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 



34 BURNS'S SONGS. 

"Haud aflf your hands, young man," she says, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be : . 
If ye hae ony love for me, 

Oh wrang na my virginitie I" 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipped in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the polished marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kissed her owre and owre again. 

And aye she wist na what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 

I thanked her for her eourtesie ; 
But aye she blushed, and aye she sighed, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruined me." 
I clasped her waist, and kissed her syne, 

While the tear stood twinklin* in her e'e ; 
I said, " My lassie, dinna cry. 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, 

And made them a' in sarks to me : >., 
Blithe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me. 

The braw lass made the bed to me : 
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me ! 



BONNIE ANN. 
Tune—** Ye gallants bright." 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 35 

Her e'en sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan; 
Sae j imply laced her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a* their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 



AE FOND KISS. 
Tune—'' Rory Dall's Port." 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever \ 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met, or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest I 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I 



36 BURNS*S SONGS. 

MY BONNIE MAKY. 
Tune — " Go fetch to me a pint o' wine.*' 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie : 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody : 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar ; 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

Twwe— "The Lazy Mipt*" 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear ! 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues \ 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vaijj^ 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn ! 
What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gained ! 
And downward, how weakened, how darkened, how 

pained! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give; 
For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 37 

THE SMILING SPEING. 
Tune— "The Bonny Bell." 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are tbe sunny skies. 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning. 

The evening gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



BLOOMING NELLY. 
Tune — " On a bank of flowers." 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly dressed, 
The youthful blooming Nelly ky. 

With love and sleep oppressed ; 
When Willie, wandering through the wood, 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes like weapons sheathed, 

Were sealed in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breathed, 

It richer dyed the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly pressed. 

Wild, wanton, kissed her rival breast ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed; 

His bosom iU at rest. 



38 BDRNS*S SONGS. 

Her robes liglit waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

And sighed his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake. 

On fear-inspired wings, 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 

Away aflrighted springs : 
But Willy followed, as he should. 

He overtook her in the wood; 
He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Tune — "Captain O'Kean." * 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the 
vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning. 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. 

While the lingering moments are numbered by care? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly sing- 
ing, 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these val- 
lies, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find 
none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn. 

My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial ; 

Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return \ 



BURNS*S SONGS. 39 

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
Tune-^" Failte na Miosg." 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe ; 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the north, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below: 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 

My heart's in tlfe Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe ; 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 
Tune— '^ John Anderson my jo." 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were ILke the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now yom* brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



40 BURNS'S SONGS. 

OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL ! 

Tune — "My love is lost to me." 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill .' 
Or Lad of Helicon iny fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
ButNith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I couldna sing, I couldna say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbsj^ae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een ; 

By heaven and earth, I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name ; 

I only live to love thee. 
Though I were doomed to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then, and then I love thee. 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 
Tune — **Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I loe best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



BURNS S SONGS. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fan* ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang4he knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa I 
How fond to meet, how wae to part, 

That night she gaed awa I 
The powers aboon can only ken. 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean I 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
Tune — " Death of Captain Cook." 
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love I 



42 BUENS'S SONGS. 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last emhrace, 

Ah I little thought we *twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene : 
The flowers sprung wanton to be pressed, 

The birds sang love on every spray ; 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o*er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, deat departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 
Tune — "Young Jockey.** 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa: 
Fu* blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danced h^e in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sae'l^feonnie blue. 

He roosed my waist sae genty sma*. 
And aye my heart came to my mpg* 

When ne'er a body heard or sa 

My Jockey toils upon the plain. 

Through wind and weet, through frost and snaw ; 
And o'er the lea I look f^fain, 

When Jockey's owsen Jiameward ca'. 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a', 
And ftye he vows he'll be my ain, 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 43 

THE DAY KETUENS. 
Tune — " Seventh of November.** 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
Though winter wild in tempest toiled. 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crovms and globes. 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine ! 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature ought of pleasure give, 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone I live. 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss, it breaks my heart! 



I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. 
Tune—" The Blue-eyed Lass." 

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; 
• It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled ; 

She charmed my soul, I wist na how ; 
And aye the stouui, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her e» sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



44 BURNS*S SONGS. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune — "Robie donna Goracb/* 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command. 
When shall I see that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily hloom ! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton through the broom 1 
Though wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE. 
Tune — " My tocher's the jewel." 

. Oh meikle thinks mj love o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my *iove o' my kin; 
But little thinks my love I ken brawlie 

My tocher's tlje jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the honey he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller. 

He canna liae love to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' love's an arle-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'U crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



BURNS'S BONGS. 45 

MY HEART IS A-]^EAKING, DEAR TITTIE! 
Tune— *'T Sim Glen." 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ! 

Some counsel unto me come len'. 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Gleu? 

I'm thinking wi' sic a hraw fellow 

In poortith I might make a fen*; 
What care I in riches to wallow, 

If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie, the laird o' DrumeUer, 
"Guid day to you, brute!" he comes ben; 

He brags and he blows o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen? 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me,. 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: 

But if it's ordained I maun take him, 
Oh wlia will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie! don't tarry; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ve will advise me to marry 

The lad I loe dearly, Tam Gler. 



46 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THERE'LL NEVER IBE PEACE. 

Tune — " There are few guid fellows when Willie's awa." 

By yon castle wa*, at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears down came, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet roimd their green beds in the yard; 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu* auld dame; 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the same, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been owre the lugs in love. 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could move. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How soon it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Though thou may gaily bloom awhile; 
Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 47 

OH, WILLIE BEEWED. 

Tune — " Willie brewed a peek o* maut.** 

Oh, Willie brewed a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to pree : 
Three blither hearts that lee-lang night, 
Ye wadna find in Christendie. 
We are nae fu', we're no that fa', 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkiu' in the lift sae hie; 

She shines sae bright to wile us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa*, 

A cuckold, coward loon is he I 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three ! 



HOW CAN I BE BLITHE AND GLAD. 
Tune — " The bonnie lad that's far awa." 

Oh how can I be blithe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is-owre the hills and far awa? 
When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind. 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 
But aye the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far awa. 



48 EURNS'S SONGS. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disowned me a', 
But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The honnie lad thafs far awa. 
But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The borinie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 
And I will wear them for his sake, 
The honnie lad that's far awa. 
^ And I will wear them for his sake. 

The honnie lad that's far awa. 



HUNTING-SONG. 
Tune—^'- 1 red you beware at the hunting." 
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, 
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, 
Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a glen. 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 

But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells* 
Her colours betrayed her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red you beware, &c. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peeped o*er the hill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levelled his rays where she basked on tlfe brae, 
His rays were outshone, and but marked where she lay. 
I red you beware, &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skiU ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red you beware, &c. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 49 

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 
Tune — " What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man." 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie. 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my mimiie. 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' 1 

He's always compleenin' frae momin' to e'enin', 
He hoasts and he hii'ples the weaiy day lang; 
He's doyled and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He's doyled and he's dozin', his hluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man I 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break 
him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 

THE BONNIE WEE THING. 
Tune — " Bonnie wee thing." 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee tiling, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish; 

Lest my wee thing be na mine, 



60 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine! 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. 
Tune — " Oh Kenmure*s on and awa, Willie." 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true. 

And that their foes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa I 
And here's the flower that I love best, 

'The rose that's like the snaw I 



BURNS'S SONGS. 51 

OH, FOR ANE-AND -TWENTY, TAM. 

Tune — " The Moudiewort." 

CHORUS. 

And oil, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
An' I saw ane-and-twenty. Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and hand me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel ro 
And then comes ane-and-twenty. Tarn. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 

Was left me by my auntie, Tarn : 
At kith or kin I need na spier, 

An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Though T mysel' hae plenty, Tam, 

But hear'st thou laddie I there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. 



LOVELY DAVIE S. 
Twne— " Miss Muir." 

HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 

The poet's occupation. 
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whispers inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning. 
When passed the shower, and every flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looljs o'er Siberia's shore. 

When winter-bound the wave is; 
Sae droops cur heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 



52 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A sceptred hand, a king's command, 

Is in her darting glances : 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My muse'to dream of such a theme. 

Her feeble powers surrender ; 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 

The sun's meridian splendour: 
I wad in vain essay the strain. 

The deed too daring brave is; 
I'll drop the lyre, and mute admire 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Tune — " The sweet lass that loes me." 

Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin. 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blessed wi' content, and milk and meal-' 
Oh leeze me on my spinning wheel ! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 



BURNS'S SONGS. 53 

The craik amang tlie clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a' the pride of a' the great? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



OH LOVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

Tune—" The Fosie." 

Oh love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; 

Oh love will venture in where wisdom ance has been; 

But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae 

green ; 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms with- 
out a peer; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 
The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; 
The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected air; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of day ; 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak 
away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



54 BDRNS'S SONGS. 

FAIE ELIZA. 
A Gaelic air. 

Turn again, tlioii fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e. 
Kens the pleasure,. feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 
Tune—'' The Country Lass." 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn. 

And corn waved green in ilka field, 
While clover blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what will:' 
Outtspak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" 0' guid advisement comes nae ill. 



BUIvNS S SONGS. 

It's ye liae wooers mony aue, 

Aud, lassie, ye're but youug, ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, aud cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a ronthie ben : 
There's Johnny o' the Biiskie-glen, 

Fu' is his bai-n, fii' is his byre ; 
Tall this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the lover's fire." 

''For Johnny o' the Huskie-glen, 

I dinna care a singfe flie ; 
He loes sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae love to spare for me ; 
But blithe's the blink o' Fiobie's e'e, 

And, weel I wat, he loes me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen aiid a' his gear." 

" Oh thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin best, 

And hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

" Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart o' leesome lo^'B 

The gowd and siller canna buy: 
We may be poor, Bobie aud I, 

Light is the burden love lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy; 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ?" 



WILLIE WASTLE. 
Tune—'' The Eight Men of Moidart." 

WtLLiE Wastle dwelt on Tweed, 

The spot they called it Liukum-doddie ; 

Willie was a wabster gnid, 
Could stown a clue wi' ony bodie. 



56 BURNS'S SONGS. 

He had a wife was clour and din, 
Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has hut ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a millet: 
A whiskin' beard about her mou, 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 

She's bough-houghed, she's hein-shinned, 

Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits. 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 



UCH A PAECEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION 
Tune — " A parcel of j-ogues in a nation." 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel oar ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae famed in martial story. 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province stands: 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 



BURNS S SONGS. Oi 

What force or guile could not subdue, 

Through many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few. 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain. 

Secure in valour's station; 
But English gold has been our bane : 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation I 

Oh would, or I had seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll mak this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold : 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 1 



SONG OF DEATH, 

Tune — " Oran an Diog." 

Scene— A field of battle. — Time of the day, evening. — The 

wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to 

join in the following song : 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run! 

Thou gi'im king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe ! 

Go, frighten the coward and slave; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know. 

No terrors hast thou to the "brave I 

Thou strikest the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strikest the young hero, a glorious mark I 

He falls in the blaze of his fame I 

In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save. 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh ! who would not die with the bravoJ 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 
r^ne— "She's fair and faiise." 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I loed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
And 1 hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lassie gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 
Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been owre meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 
Tune — " The yellow-haired laddie." 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow genily, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not i^y slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft aa mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 59 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVEENESS. 

Tune — " Lass of Inverness." 
The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and mom she crie s alas I 

And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ! 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see : 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blessed a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 

A REDDED ROSE. 
rMwe—" Graham's Strathspey." 

Oh, my love's like a red, red rose, 

That's newly sprung in June : 
Oh, my love's like the melodie, 

That's sweetly played in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in love am I : 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 



60 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Till a' tbe seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I -will love thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only love ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my love. 

Though it were ten thousand mile. 



OH WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 
Tune — "I'll aye ca' in by yon town." 

Oh, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon? 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

That e'enin' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blessed ye flowers that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blessed ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year I 

And doubly welcome be the spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Liipy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 

0' Paradise could yield me joy; 
But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Though raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 



BURNS S SONGS. 1)1 

Oh sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin' sun's gane clown upon ; 

A fairer tban's in yon town 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If^angry fate is sworn my foe, 

■i^nd suffering I am doQmed to beai' ; 
I careless quit aught else below, 
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dearl 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart; 

And she, as fau-est is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart! 



IT WAS A' FOR OUK EIGHTFU' KING. 
Tune — " It was a* for our rightfu' king." 
It was a' for our rightfu' king. 

We left fair Scotland's strand; 
I was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear ; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do. 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main, 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 
He turned him right, and round about 

Upon the Irisl^ shore ; 
And gie his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear; 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor frae the main ; 
But I hae parted frae my love. 

Never to meet again. 
My deiu- ; 

Never to meet again. 



62 BURNS S SONGS. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa', 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 

My dear; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 



OH WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME? 
Tune — " Morag." 
Oh wha is she that loes me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
Oh sweet is she that loes me. 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 

Oh thaf s the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming. 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 
But her, thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 

Oh that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankiiul, 

And ne'er a auc to peer her. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 63 

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 

Tune — " Louis, what reck I by thee." 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean? 
Dyvor, beggar loons to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith, awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye I 



THE EXCISEMAN. 

Tune—'-'' The deil cam fiddling through the town. 

The deii cam fiddling^through the to^vn, 

And danced awa wi' the exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries, " Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize man 1" 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the exciseman; 
He's danced awa, he's danced awa, 
He's danced awa wi' the exciseman. 

We'll mak our maut,. we'll brew our drink. 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil 
That danced awa wi' the exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' the exciseman; 
He's danced awa, he's danced awa, 
He's danced awa wi' the exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's foiu'some reels, 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; 
But the ae best dunce e'er cam to the land 
Was, the deil's awa wi' the exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the exciseman; 
He's danced awa, he's danced awa, 
He's danced awa wi' the exciseman. 



64 BURNS'S SONGS. 

• SOMEBODY. 

Tune — " For the sake of somebody." 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 

I could wake a winter night 

For the sake of somebody. 

Oh-hon, for somebody ! 

Oh-hey, for somebody ! 

I could range the world around, 

For the sake o' somebody 1 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon, for somebody I 
Oh-hey, for somebody I 
I wad do, what wad I not I "■ 
For the sake o' somebody I 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 
Tune — " I'll gae nae mair to yon town." 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden gr^en, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall guess. 

What brings me back the gate again, 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 

And stownlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tr^ 
When trystin-time draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see. 
Oh haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

. And see my bonnie Jean again. 



BURNS'S SONGS. G5 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? 
Tune—'' The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wilt tliou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings tliy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I beiu' thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, ^ 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou loes me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
TrastiDg that thou loes me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou loes me. 



BUT LATELY SEEN. 
Tune—'' The Winter of Life." 
But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day; 
Through gentle showers the laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall meet the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weai-y days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comes thou not again? 



66 BURNS*S SONGS. 

COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 
Tune — " Could aught of song.** 

Could auglit of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell in laboured strains. 

Oh Mary, how I love thee ! 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of ai't. 

When wastes the soul with anguish? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye. 

Oh read the imploring lover ! 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refined. 

The voice of nature prizing. 



OH STEER HER UP. 
Tune—'' Oh steer her up, and haud her gaun.' 

Oh steer her up aud haud her gaun, 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she wiuna take a man. 

E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo. 
And gin she take the thing amiss, 

E'en let her fiyte her fill, jo. 

Oh steer her up, and be na blate, 

And gin she take it ill, jo. 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae langer «pill, jo ; 
Ne'er break your heart foriie rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll fin' anither will, jo. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 67 

OH LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. 

Oh lay tliy loof in mine, lass, 
Jn mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway. 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I heie loed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
That thou wilt be my ain. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tane — " Caledonian hunt's delight." 

There was once a day, but old time then was young. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knowg not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine ga'ew • 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee the encounter shall 
rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; 
But chiefly the woods were her favourite resort. 

Her darling amusement the hounds and the honi. 



bo BURNS S SONGS. 

Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steers, 
A flig^it of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 

Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
^ They darkened the air, and they plundered thelantl : 

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 
They'd conquered and ruined a world beside ; 

She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly ; 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The feir harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, andthe dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, ajid wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their furj^ prevailed, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed. 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robbed him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquered, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: 
Rectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them al- 
wavs. 



BURNS S SONGS. 

ANNA, THY CHAKMS. 
Tune — '* Bonnie Mary." 

Anna tliy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul "with care; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admh'e, 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fan*, 

To hope may be forgiven ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heaven. 



MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 

Tune—'* Gregg's pipes." 

My lady's gown, there's gairs npon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game, 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship loed. 

Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks through the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs. 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's dressed. 
The flower and fancy o' the west: 
But the lassie that a man loes best. 
Oh that's the lass to make him blessed. 



70 EURNS'S SONGS. 

GLOOMY DECEMBER. 
Tune—^*^ Wandering Willie." 

Ance mair I hail tliee, thou gloomy December, 

Alice mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone. 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



OH MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

Oh Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 
A barefit maid I chanced to meet ; 

But oh the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken sljoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair beyont compare. 

Comes trinkling down her swan- white neck ; 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 



BURNS S SONGS. 

CASSILLIS' BA.NKS. 

Now bank and brae are claitbed in green. 

And scattered cowslips sweetly spring ; 
By Girvan's fairy-liaunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e 1 

The child wha boasts o' warld's walth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain. 

Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 

Tune — " Killicrankie." 

Oh wha will to Saint Stexjhen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' the merry lads of Ayr, man? 
Or will we send a man o' law ? 

Or will we send a sodger? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's man? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guessed the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Chan)pctre. 



72 BURNS'S SONGS. 

When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green woods amang, man ; 
Where, gathering flowers and busking bowers. 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man : - * 
A vow, they sealed it with a kiss. 

Sir Politics to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss. 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, 

Ower hill and dale she flew, man; 
In wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 
She summoned every social sprite. 

That sports by wood or water. 
On the bonnie hanks of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals through the tr-aes 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels rnet, at Adam's yett. 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there to mix 
' And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man ; 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 73 

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 
Tune—^^ Lass o* Livistone." 

Oh, wert thou m the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if tliou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 
Tune — " Ye*re welcome, Charlie Stewart." 

Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld thy'fchanni 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oil charming Polly Stewart! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
Tune — " Push about the jorura." 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, sir; 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,* 

And Criffel^ sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 
Fall de rail, &c. 

Oh, let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling he divided; 
Till, sltp, come in an unco loon, 

And wf a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Among ourselves united; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British Avraugs be righted, 
Fallde rall,,&c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't; . 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dnre to spoil it ; 
By Heaven! the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 
A high hill at the source of the Nith. 
A well-known mountain at the month of the same riv 



BURNS S SONGS. JO 

YESTREEN I HAD A PINT 0' WINE. 
Tune — "Banks of Banna." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms. 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



THE LEA RIG. 
Tune—" The Lea Rig." 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrowed field. 

Return sae dowf and weary ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the Iea;i'ig, 

My ain kind dearie 0.^ 



76 BURNS'S SONGS. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Although the night were ne'er sae wild. 

And I were ne'er sae wearie 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter loes the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on .the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie 0. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 
Tune — " The Collier's Bonnie LassiCc* 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed owre the border? 
She's gane, Uke Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 
To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we, before thee; 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The deil he could na scaith thee, 

Or aught that wad belang thee; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face. 

And say " I canna wrang thee !" 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near tbee. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 77 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonuie. 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? 
Tune — " The Ewe-buchts." 

Will ye go. to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me. 
When I forget my vow ! 

Oh plight me your faith, ray Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And cursed be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer; 

And neist my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 



78 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Oh leez8 me on my wee thing, 
My bounie blithesome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 
Though warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' ber I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

POOKTITH CAULD. 
Tune — " I had a horse." 
Oh poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
Oh why should sic pleasure have. 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 

Depend on fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie, on silly coward man, * 

That he should be the slave o't. 

Oh why,'&c. 

Her e'en sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

Oh why, &c. 

Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ; 
Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
Oh why, &c. 

How blessed the humble cotter's fate ! 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state. 

Can never make them eerie. 
Oh why, &c. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 79 

HIGHLAND MARY. 
Tune — " Katharine Ogie." 
Ye banks and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasped her to my bosom 1 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder ; 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipped my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD EOB MOEEIS. 
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine. 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 



80 BURNS'S SONGS. 

She's fresli as the morniDg, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,* 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nai>e ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night- troubled ghaist. 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me ! 
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 

DUNCAN GRAY. 
Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe Yule night when we were fu', 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Looked asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan sighed baith out and in, . 
Grat his een baith bleert and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin' owre a linn; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

- Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't: 
• A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 81 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to France for me ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Meg grew sick, as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't: 
Something in her hosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she hrings ; 
And oh, her e'en they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't: 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoored his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and cantie baith ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



GALA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I loe him better; 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Although his daddie was nae laird, 
And though I hae na meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' miitual love, 
Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure! 



82 BURNS'S SONGS. 

LORD GREGORY'. 

Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 
And loud the tempest's roar ; 

A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 
Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'. 
And a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pity on me shaw, 
' If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I owned that virgin -love 

I langlang had denied ? 
How aften didst thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord *Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast: 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by. 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ! 
Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



MARY MORISON. 
Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

Oh Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary M'orison! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 83 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Though this was fair and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sighed, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e; 
Welcome now simmer and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Eest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms! 
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms ! 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ! 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain I 



84 BURNS*S SONGS. 

' THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
Tune—'' The mill, mill O. *' 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a ^idow mourning : 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstained wi' plunder : 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did gander. 
I thought upon the banks o* Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reached the bonnie glen 

Where early life I sported ; 
I passed the mill, and try sting thorn, 

Where Nancy oft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turned me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' altered voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
Oh ! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain would be thy lodger ; 
I've served my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a sodger I" 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 

And loVelier was then ever; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 



BURNS'S SONGS. 85 

Our humble cot and hamely fare 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gazed, she reddened like a rose ; 

Syne pale like ony lily. 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

" Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" 
" By Him who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ! 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we'se near be parted." 
Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenished fairly; 
And come, my faithfu* sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor; 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodgers wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger; 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 

And aye she sang sae merrilie ; 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she- 



86 BURNS'S SONGS. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhitVs nest; 
And frost will blight the fairest flowers ; 

And love will break the soundest rest. 
Young Ilobie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 

And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 
As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
So trembling pure was tender love, 

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she warks her mammie's wark, 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wist na whatjier ail might be, 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love 

Ae e'enin on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to hers he fondly pressed, 

And whispered thus his tale o' love: 
" Oh Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear; 

Oh canst thou think to fancy me ; 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather bells. 

And tent the waving corn wi' me." 
Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na; 
At length she blushed a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



BURNS*S SONGS. 87 

BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON RILL. 

Tune — •• Liggeram Cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or song can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I do nought but glower, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling. 
Underneath the grass-green sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 
Tune—'' Oh bonnie lass, will you lie la a barrack ?" 

Oh ken ye wha Meg o' the mill has gotten ? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strapping the miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl; 
She's left the guidfellow and taen the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving, 
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side and a bonnie side saddle. 

Oh wae on the siller, it i§ sae prevailing ! 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl I 



88 BCRNS'S SONGS. 

LOGAN BRAES. 
Tune — " Logan Water." 
Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
Tbat day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the siramer sun. 
But now thy flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie winter dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 
Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
The bees hum round the breathing flowers :, 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy: 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Araang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her fdithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widowed nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
Oh, wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Willie home to Logan braes ! 

0?EN THE DOOR TO ME, OH. 
*' Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! 
Tliough thou hast been false, Til ever prove true. 

Oh I open the door to nie, oh ! 



BURNS S SONGS. «» 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 

But caiilder thy love for nie, oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh !" 

She has opened the door, she has opened it wide ; 
' She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
" My true love !" she cried, and sank down by bis side 
Never to rise again, oh ! 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 
Tune — " Robin Adair." 
While larks with little wing, 

Fanned the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peeped o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 
In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Eosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 
Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were ; 
I marked the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Vlillis the fair. 



90 _ BUIINS*S SONGS. 

OH GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE ! 
Tune — *' Hughie Graham." 

Oh, gin my love were yon red rose 

That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
Oh there, beyond expression blessed, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 
Sealed on her silk-saft faujds to rest, 

Till ileyed awa by Phoebus' light. ' 

Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring. 
And I, a bird to shelter th«re, 

When wearied on my little whig ; 
How I wad mourn, when it was torn 

By autumn wild and winter rude ! 
But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 



ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 
Tune — " The mucking o* Geordie's byre." 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' jour belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare: 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amused my fond fancy, 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' m^ Phillis I 
For she is simplicity's child. 



BURNS'S SONGS. , 91 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis pressed : 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 

It's dew drop o* diamond her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes through the green-spreading gi'ove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting ! 

The bloom of a fine summer's day; 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decay. 



YOUNG JESSIE. 
Tune — "6onnie Dundee." 

True-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthroned in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ; 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' ! 



92 BURNS'S SONGS. 

HAD I A CAVE. 
Tune — ** Robin Adair." 

Had I cave on some wild distant shore, . 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar ; 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more ! 
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond-plighted vows, fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er thy peijury ; 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



DAINTY DAVIE. 
Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Dainy Davie, dainty Davie ; 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 
The crystal waters round us fa*. 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 

A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews I will repair, 

To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I loe best. 

And that's mv ain dear Davie. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 93 

BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANCED TO ROVE. 
Tune — " Allan Water." 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi;* 
The winds were whispering through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready: 
I listened to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures raony ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie : 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal impressed, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery through her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her w^eeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? 
Or through each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? 



WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 
Tune—*' AVhistle and I'll come to you, my lad." 

Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a jee; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin* to me. 

^ A mountain, west of Strathallan, 3009 feet high. 



94 BURNS*S SONGS. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er' ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tllougli that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a bUnk o'your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin* at me. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, though jokin' ye be. 
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 



BBUCE'S ADDRESS. 

Tune—"Uey Tuttie Taittie." 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace ble4» 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victory ! 

Now's the day, and now*s the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power, 
Chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains, 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be fi-ee ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 



EURNS'S SONGS. 95 

;OME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. 
Tune—'' Cauld Kail." 

Come, let me take tliee to riiy breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms', wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
ril seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never ! 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 
Tune — " Oran-Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Severed from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has willed, and we must pai*t. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest marked her vanished sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea- fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 
Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ? 
While through thy sweets she loves to stray, 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ! 



96 BURNS*S SONGS. 

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 
Tune—'' Fee him, father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever; 
Aften hast thou vowed that death only should us sever, 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye, I maun see thee never, 
Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is breaking; 
Soon my weary een I'll close, never mair to waken, 
Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS? 
Tune — " Saw ye my father ? 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning. 
That danced to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet flowerets so fair: 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our vallies. 

And grim surly winter is near? 
No, no ! the bees humming round the gay roses. 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known. 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ;- 
Come then, enamoured and fond of my anguish 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 97 

AULB LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind ? 
Should auljj acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne ? 



For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o! kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
' But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 
Sin auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paddled i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared. 

Sin auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 
Tune—'' The Collier's Bonnie Lassie." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure ; 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

H 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou would'st be named, 
.Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT! 

Tune — ** Cauld kail in Aberdeen." 

How long and dreary is the night 

When I am frae my dearie ! 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn. 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 



For oh ! her lanely nights are lang, 
And oh ! her dreams are eerie. 

And oh ! her widowed heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi* thee, my dearie. 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ! 

The joyless day how dreary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 

When I was wi' my dearie. 



BURNS*S SONGS. ^ 99 

MY SPOUSE NANCY. 
Tune—'' My Jo Janet." 

" Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

No longer idly rave, sir ; 
Though I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir." 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man, or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

" If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance !** 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it.** 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 

" I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



100 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL* FAIR. 

Tune — " Liggeram Cosh." 
Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy; 
Every pulse along my veins, 

Every roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish : 

Though despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 

Rich with balmy treasure : 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



THE BANKS OF CRfeE. 
Tune—'^ The Banks of Cree." 
Here is the glen, and here the bower. 

All underneath the birchen shade ; 
The village-bell has toUed the hour, 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mixed with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer; 

At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 

An:d art thou come ? and art thou true ? 

Oh welcome, dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 101 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 
Tune—'' O'er the hills," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
Wiien absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him thaf s far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy! 
Fate, do with me what you may. 
Spare but him thaf s far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air. 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore. 

All I can — I weep and pray. 

For his weal that's far away.] 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet. 

And as a brother kindly greet : 

Then may Heaven with prosperous gales, 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their chaige convey, 

My dear lad that's far away. 



102 BURNS'S SONGS. 

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, ^ 

Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang:. 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a-faulding let us gang. 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Through the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nought of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die, but canna part 
My bonnie dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae high ; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e. 
Ye shall be my dearie. 

SAW YE MY PHitLY. 
Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new lore, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 103 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her WUly. 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SLEEFST THOU, OR WAKE ST THOU? 
Tt0i€—" Dell tak the wars," 

Sleep'st thou, or wakest thou, fairest creature ? 

Bosy mom now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud, which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray: 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower, 
' The laverock to the sky 

Ascends wi' songs o' joy, 
While the sim and thou arise to bless the day, 

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent from my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets ray ravished sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



1C4 BURNS'S SONGS. 

SHE SAYS SHE LOES ME BEST OF A'! 
Tune — " Onagh's Lock." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wiling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe : 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she loes me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature, auld nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she loes me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang: 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou loes me best of a' ! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 105 

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
Tune — " Duncan Gray." 
Let not womait e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 
Look abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 
Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can ; 

You can be no more, you know. 



CONTENTED WT LITTLE. 
Tune — " Lumps '^o* Pudding.*' 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: 
My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has passed ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: 
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or i^ain, 
My worst word is " Welcome, and welcome again?" 



106 BURNS'S SONGS. 

MY CHLOEIS, MARK HOW GREEN THE 
GROVES. 

Tune—** My lodging is on the cold ground.*' 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The laverock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorjx? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine: 
The courtier's gems may witness love, 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune—-*' There'll never be peace.** 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o*er the braes. 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightless, my Nannie's awa. 



BURNS'S SOI^GS. 107 

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the mom ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie, and Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews of the lawn , 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, « 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night- fa', 
Give over for pity, my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me, now Nannie's awa. 



IT WAS THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

It was the charming month of May, 
"When all the flowers were fresh and gay. 
One morning, by the break of day. 

The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
From peaceful slumber she arose. 
Girt oil her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feathered people, you might see 
Perched all around on every tree; 
In notes of sweetest melody, 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise. 
Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 



108 BURNS'S 60NGS. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? 

Tune—*' Roy's Wife.** 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 

Canst tliou leave me thus, my Katy? 

Well thou knowest my aching heart. 

And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 
Is this thy plighted fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward, 

An aching, hroken heart, my Katy ? 
Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 

That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear. 

But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 

{ Twne — " Rothiemurche's Rant." 
CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 
Now nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee : 
Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 

And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 
And when the welcome simmer shower 
Has cheered ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 

At sultry noon, my dearie 0. 
When Cynthia lights, wi* silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way. 
Through yellow waving fields we'll stray, ^ 

And talk o' love, my dearie 0. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest. 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 

I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 109 

PHILLY AND WILLY. 

•Tune— "The Sow's Tail." 



Oh Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gathered hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

Oh Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I owned my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sw^et to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE, 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
*Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Though wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compared wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



no BURN S'S SONGS. 



The woodbine in the dewy weet, 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And thaf s my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ? 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my own dear Willy. 



CRAIGIEBURN WOOD. 
Tune-—'* Craigieburn Wood." 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nought but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But what a weary wight can please. 
And care his bosom wiinging ? 

Fain, fain would I ray griefs impart, 

Yet dare na foT your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



BURNS'S SONGS. Ill 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT, 
Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a* that ? 
The coward slave we pass him bj, 

We dare be poor for a' that I 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
The rank is but th& guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that 
What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that; 
For a' that, and a* that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but -a coof for a' that : 
For a' that and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that 
A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he maunna fa' that 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a* that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a* th%J. 
Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that,' 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a* that. 



112 BURNS'S SONGS. 

FAKEWELL, THOU STREAM THAT WINDING 
FLOWS. 
Tune — " Nancy's to the greenwood gane." 
Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
Oh memory ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my hosom swelling : 
Condemned to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in every vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 
Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, the unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer. 

For pity's sake forgive me i 
The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
I saw thine eyes yet nothing feared, 

Till fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



OH LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? 
Tune — *' ILet me in this ae night." 
Oh lassie art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art <hou wakin', I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Oh let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night; 
For pity's sake this ae night. 

Oh rise and let me in, jo ! 



EURNS'S SONGS. 113 

"J Lou Lear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks through the driving sleet; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield mefrae the rain, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
The caiildness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

HER ANSWER. 

Oh tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ; 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 
I winnalet you in, jo. 

CHOSUS. 

I tell you now this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wanderer poiu's. 
Is nought to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

The sweetest flower that decked the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

The bird that charmed his summer- day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
,Let witless, trusting, woman say, 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 
Tu7ie—"Where'\\ bonnie Ann lie?" or, " Loch-Eroch side." 
Oh stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, soft complaining. 



114 BURNS S SONGS. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me \7i' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh! nought but love and sorrow joined^ 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair, 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



OH THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE ! 

Tune — " This is no Tsys ain house." 

CHORUS. 

Oh this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair though the lassie be ; 

Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, 
Kind love is in her e'e. 

I SEE a form I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When -kind love is in the e'e. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



BUBNS'S SONGS. 115 

ON CHLOEIS BEING ILL. 
Tune — "Aye wakin* O." 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 
Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair, 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Hear me,, powers divine ! 

Oh I in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 
But my Chloris spare me ! 

THEIR GROVfiS O' SWEET MYRTLE. 
^Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Theib groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 
' Far dearer to me ai'e yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A-listeniug the linnet, oft wanders my Jean. 

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny vallies, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace. 

What are they ? the haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean I 



116 BURNS'S SONGS. 

'TWAS NA HEK BONNIE BLUE E'E WAS MY 
RUIN. 

Tune — *' Laddte, lie near me." 

'TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; 
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS! 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH S0N4. 

Tune — " John Anderson my Jo." 

How cruel are the parents. 

Who riches only prize ; 
And to the wealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile, the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father s hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries : 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops benea*1th his fee^. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 117 

SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. 

Now spring lias clad the grove in green, 

And strewed the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrowed, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers : 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
Oh why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 
The trout within yon wimpling hum 

Glides swift, a silver dart; 
And safe heneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art. 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; ^ 

But love, wi' unrelenting heara. 

Has scorched my fountains dry. 
The little floweret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder clifi* that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me passed. 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast. 

My youth and joy consume. 
The wakened laverock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye. 
As little recked I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 
Oh, had my fate been Greenland snows. 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known I • 

The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mair," 

What tongue his woes can tell! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



118 BURNS'S SONGS. 

MARK YON POMP OF COSTLY FASHION. 
Tune — " Deil tak the wars.'* 

Mark youder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride f* 
But when compared with real passion. 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polished jewel's blaze 

May draw the wondering gaze. 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even avarice would deny 

His worshipped deity. 
And feel through every vein love's raptures roll. 



FRAGMENT. 
Tune—'' The Caledonian Hunt*s delight." 

Why, why teU thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ? 
Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hojjes the lie ? 

Oh why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 
Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 

Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



BURNS*S SONGS. 119 

OH BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt oL man ; 

And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witnessed in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ; 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
And I the world nor wish nor scorn, ^ 

Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



JE S SY. 



Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! 

Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear, Jessy! 

Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied : 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside, Jessy ! 

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am locked in thy arms, Jessy ! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessy ! 



i20 I^URNS'S SONGS. 

FOKLORN MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR. 
Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



Oh wert thou, love, hut near me;' 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
. And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, altered friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart; 

Let me not break thy faithful heart. 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

But dreary though the moments fleet, 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER, 
Tune — "Balinamona ora." 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, ' 
Oh/gie me the lass wi' the weel-stocked farms, 

CHORUS. 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 121 

Yonr beauty's a flower, in tbe morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows : 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new decked wi' bonnie white yowes. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blessed, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possessed; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie impressed, 
The langer ye hae them, the mair they're caressed. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 
; Tune — "The Lothian Lassie." 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 

And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men : 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts o' my bonnie black een, 
And vowed for my love he was dying; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A well-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenned it or cared, 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less. 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess ; 

Guess ye how, the j ad I I could bear her, could be**' 

her. 
Guess ye how, the j ad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my tine fickle lover was there ! 

I glowered as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowered as I'd seen a warlock. 



122 BURNS'S SONGS. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebours might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he capered as he'd been in drink, 
And vowed 1 was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vowed I was his dear lassie. 

I spiered for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recovered her hearin', 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shackled feet, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin', a-swearin', 
But heavens I how he fell a swearin'. 

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife. 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow: 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



I DREAMED I LAY. 

I DREAMED I lay whcrc flowers were springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 

Through the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring. 

O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasure I enjoyed; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flowery bliss destroyed. 
Though fickle fortune has deceived me, ^ 

She promised fair, and performed but ill; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 123 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Tune— ''The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, 
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O ; 
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a 

farthing, ; 
For without an honest manly heart,no man was worth 

regarding, 0. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, ; 

Though to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great 
was charming, : 

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my edu- 
cation, ; 

Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, 0. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's 

favour, 0; 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each 

endeavour, 0. 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpowered; sometimes by 

friends forsaken, O ; 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst 

mistaken, 0. 

Then sore harassed, and tired at last, with fortune's 

vain delusion, O, 
I dropped my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to 

this conclusion, : 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill 

untried, ; 
But the present hour was in my power, and so I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to be- 
friend me, ; 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to 
sustain me, : 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me early, ; 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, 0. 



124 b'urns's songs. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, through life 
I'm doomed to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slum- 
ber, O : 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me 
pain or sorrow, O ! 

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa- 
lace, O, 

Though fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all 
her wonted malice, : 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 
farther, ; 

But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much re- 
gard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour learn a little money, O, 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me, O : 
Mischance,mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natured 

folly, O ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O, 

■The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your 
view the farther, O : 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O, 

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before 
you, 0. 



HANDSOME NELL." 
Tune — *' I am a mau unmarried." 
Oh once I loved a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 
I'll love my handsome Nell. 

* This is the first production of the muse of Burns, which 
is remarkable for its unaffected gimplicity and natural truth. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 125 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

Ami mony full as braw ; 
But for a modest graeefu' mien, 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities, 

She's no the lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And, what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye so clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel: 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gar? ony dress look well. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart ; 
But if s innocence and modesty 

Th^ 1 poUshes the dart. 

'Tis this iv Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 



STAY, MY CHARMER. 
Tune — '* An Gille dubh ciar dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much you grieve me; 
Cruel charmer, can you go ? 
Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited, 

By the faith you fondly plighted. 

By the pangs of lovers slighted. 

Do not, do not leave me ! 

Do not, do not leave me I 



126 BURNS'S SONGS. 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 
Tune — •' Rothiemurche." 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside. 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear? 
Oh, did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so !" 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share / 
And, by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 



HEY, THE DUSTY MILL Ex 

Tune—'' The Dusty Mi'.lci.* 

Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty coat ; 
He will win a shilling. 
Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat. 

Dusty was the colour. 
Dusty was the kiss 
That I got frae the miiiei . 

Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty sack; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck : 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty sillei ; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



BLRNS'S SONGS. 127 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWEE. 
Tune — "Maggy Lauder." 

I MARRIED with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many gi'iefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and- twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length iv(^ me her course she steered, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter. 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 
A handsome grave does hide her ; 

But sure her soul is not in hell, 

_ The deil would ne'er abide her ! 

i. rather think she is aloft, 
And imitating thunder ; 

For why ? methinks I hear her voice 
Tearing the clouds asunder ! 



THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

[n Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles. 

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a'. 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw, 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton; 

But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



128 BURNS'S SONGS. 

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
Tune — "Cold blows the wind." 



Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early; 
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in tiie thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn ; 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 
Tune—'' Shawnboy.'* 

i?' "-ens of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

lo follow the noble vocation; 
^our thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray. 

As pra,ying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with beneficdnt aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And bro-therly love be the centre. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 129 

ROBIN. 
Tune—'' Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was bom in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' wliatna style,' 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Ran tin' rovin', ran tin' rovin' ; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin ! 

Oiu' monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twiis then a blast o' Januar' vdn' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keeldt in his loof, 
Quo' she, wlia lives will see the prccf. 
This waly boy will be na coof ; 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma* 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a': 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three malv nine, 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS. 

Hj:r flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 
How sweet unto that breast to clhig. 

And round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wet wi' dew, 
Oh, what a feast her bounie mou' I 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 



130 BURNS'S SONG&. 

THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MARY. 
Tune—'' The Ruffian's Rant." 
In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry; . 
As day was dawin in the sky, 
We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 

Her haffet locks as brown's a berry : 
And aye they dimpled wi a smile. 

The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 
We lap and danced the lee-lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary ; 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



OH, WHERE DID YOU GET P*^ 

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee.* 

Oh, where did you get that hanver meal bannock ? 

Oh silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? 
1 gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 
Oh gin I saw the bonnie laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me ! 
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie. 

My blessin's upoi^thy bonnie e'e-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 
. Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 
* The first vetse of this song is not the xomposition of 
Burns, being taken from a homely ditty written long before 
his time. 



BUBNS'S SONG«. 131 

SUMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 
Tune—'' Ayewaukin* O." 
Summer's a pleasant time, 
Flowers of every colour; 
The water rius o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my trjie lover. 

Aye waukin' O, 
• Waukin' still and wearie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my bonnie lad. 

And bleer my een wi' greetin'. 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 
TuTie — "Lady Badinscoth's Reel." 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet. 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her O, 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's wooed. 

But he may say he's t "Ught her, ! 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here I never missed it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 
The minister kissed the fiddler's wife, 

And could na preach for thinking o't. 



132 BURNS'S SONQS. 

LANDLADY, COUNT THE LA WIN. 

Tune—'' Hey Tuttie Taittie." 

Landlady, count the lawin 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly fu'. 

Hey tuttie, taittie, 
How tuttie, taittie ; 
Wha's fu' now ? 

Oog, an ye were aye fu', 
Cog, an ye were aye fu', 
I wad sit and sing to you. 
If ye were aye fu'. ■ 

Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see ! 
God'bless the king, boys, 
And the company ! 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 
Tune — " O'er the water to Charlie." 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
^' And live or die wi' Charlie. 

■*■ 
I loe well my Charlie's name, 

Though some there be abhor him ; 
But oh, to see auld Nick gaun hame. 

And Charlie's faes before him ! 
I swear and vow by moon and stars. 

And sun that shines so early. 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I'd die as aft fo.r Charlie. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 133 

THE CAPTAIN'S LAD^. 

Tune — " Oh mount and go." 
CHORUS. 

Oh mount and go, 

Mount and make your ready ; 
Oh mount and go, 

And be the captain's lady. 

When the drums do beat. 

And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shall sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquished foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go, 

And in love enjoy it. 



OH AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 
Tune — " My wife she dang me." 

Oh aye my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a' her will 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 

When a' my days are done, man ; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon., man. 
Oh aye my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me. 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, ~ 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 



134 BURNS'S SONGS. 

FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE. 

Tune—'^ Whistle o'er the lave o't." 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven I thought was in her air ; 
Now we're married, spier nae mair, 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Ronnie Meg was nature's child; 
Wiser men than me's beguiled ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see, 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggot's meat, 
JDished up in her winding sheet, 
I could write, but Meg maun see't ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
To a Gaelic air. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That he frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured and a'. 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a' : 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin', 

Weel-featured, weel-tochered, weel-mounted, and 
braw; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her. 

The penny's the 3 ewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the maileri that fain wad a-haen him, 

And Susie, whose daddie was laird 0' the ha'; 
There's lang-tochered Nancy maist fetters his fancy; 

But the laddie's dear sel' he loes dearest of a'. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 135 

THE BATTLE OF SHERRIFF-MUIR. 
Tune — *' Cameronian Rant." 
"Oh cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
" I saw the hattk, sair and tough, 
And reekm' red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan du<is, 

Wha glaumed at kingdoms three, man. 
The red-coat lads, wi' hlack cockades, 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rushed, and pushed, and bluid outgushed, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wot they glanced for twenty miles : 
They hacked and hashed, while broadswords clashed, 
And through they dashed, and hewed and smashed, 

Till fey men died awa, man. 
But had you seen the philabegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man; 
When in the teeth they dared our Wbigs, 

And covenant true blues, man : 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets opposed the targe. 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,- 

They fled like frighted doos, man." 
" Oh how deil. Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man; 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling winged thek flight; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a hunted, poor red coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man !" 



136 BURNS'S SONGS. 

*' My sister Kate cam up tlie gate 

Wi' crowclie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That clay their neebours' blood to spill; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose, all crying woes ; 

And so it goes, you see, man. 
They've lost some gallant gentlemen 

Amang the Highland clans, man : 
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: 
Now wad ye sing.this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some ifor right; 
But mony bade the world guid-night; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 
By red claymores, and muskets' kuell, 
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell. 

And Whigs to hell did flee, man." 



WHERE HAE YE BEEN ? 
Tune—''' Killiecrankie." 
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Where hae ye been sae brankie, ? 
Oh, where hae ye been sae braw, hid ? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, ? 
An ye had been where I hae been, 

Ye wad na been sae cantie, ; 
And ye had seen what I hae seen. 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, ; 
But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 
Tlie bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

And Olavers got a clankie, O ; 
Or I had fed an A thole gled, 
- On the braes of Killiecranliic/O. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 137 

THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — " Duncan Davison." 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moor to spin ; 
There was a lad that followed her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was dreigh, and Meg was skeigh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A hurn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eased their shanks, 

And aye she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
Then Meg took up her spiunin' graith. 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house, a wee wee house, 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blithe and merry we will be 

When ye set by t\e wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And aye be welcome back again. 



RATTLIN' ROARIN' WILLIE 

Tune—"- Rattlin' roariu' Willie." 

Oh rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Oh, he held to the fair, 
And for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle. 

The saut tear blin't his e'e ; 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



138 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Ob Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl would think I was mad; 
For mony a ran tin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 
As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily'keekit ben; 
, Rattlin' roarfn' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en' ; 
Sitting at yon board en'. 

And amang guid company ; 
Rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me \ 



AWA, WHIGS, AWA. 

Tune — " Awa, Whigs, awa." 

Awa, Whiga, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa i 
Ye'r^ but a pack o' ti'aitor louns, 
Yell do nae good at a'. 
Our thristles flourished fresh and fair, 

And bonnie bloomed our roses ; 
But Whigs came like a frOst in June, 

And withered a' our posies. 
Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust; 

Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; 
And write their names in his black beuk, 

Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 
Our sad decay in church and state 

Surpasses my descriving ; 
The Whigs cam o'er us for a curse, 

And we hae done wi' thriving. 
Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap. 

But we may see him wauken ; 
Gude help the day when royal head^ 

Are hunted like a maukin. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 139 

EPPIE ADAIR. 

Tune — "My Eppie." 

AnjD oh ! my Eppie, 
I|^y jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair. 

And oh ! ray Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ! 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Dishonour defile me, 
If e'er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Adair ! 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

Oh I I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hills, \ 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! m 

Nae woman in the country wide j 

Sae happy was as me. \ 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 



MO , BURNS'S SONGS. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 
Sair sair may I repine ; 

For Donald was the brawest lad, 
And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's'arm was wanted then, 

For Scotland a.nd for me. 

Their waefu' fate what need I tell ? 

Eight to the wrang did yield : 
My Donald and his country fell 

Upon Culloden's field. 

Oh ! I a.m come to the low countrie, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Nae woman in the world v/ide 
Sae wretched now as me. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 

Tune — " Guidwife, count the lawin." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o'. light. 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bkiid-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
. The lawin, the lawin ; 
Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
And bring a coggie mair ; 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And simple folk maun fight and fen ; 
But here -we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 141 

FRAE THE FEIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 

- Tune — " Carron side." 

Frae the friends aud land I love 

Driven by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best beloved I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight; 
Never raair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore. 
Till the fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore; 
Till revenge, wi' laurelled head, 

Bring our banished hame again; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE F-ACE. 

Tune— ^-ThQ Maid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae. 

Nor stronger in my breast. 
Than if I canna mak thee sae. 

At least to see thee blessed. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



142 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE TITHER MORN. 
To a Highland air. 

The tither morn, when I forlorn 

Aneath an aik sat moaning, 
I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 

Beside me, gain the gloaming. 
But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig, 

And dawtingly did cheer me, 
When I, what reck, did least expec", 

To see my lad so near me. 

His honnet he, a thought ajee, 

Cocked sprush when first he clasped me ; 
And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat,- 

While in his grips he pressed me. 
Deil tak the war ! I late and air, 

Hae wished since Jock departed; 
But now as glad I'm wi' my lad. 

As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, 

Wh.en a' were blithe and merry, • 

I cared na by, sae sad was I, 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blessed ! my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi' my Johnny: 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there, 

And be as canty's ony. 



THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 
Tu7ie — " The weary pund o' tow." 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 
The weary pund o' tow ; 

I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 

I BOUGHT my wife a stane o' lint 

As guid as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that. 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 



BURNS*S SONGS. 143 

Thei*e sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle lowe, 
And aye she took tbe tither souk, 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 
Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 
At last her feet, I sang to see't, 

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wed anither jad, 

I'll wallop in a tow. 



YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 
Tune—'' Ye Jacobites by name." 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 
Your fautes I will proclaim, 
Your doctrines I maun blame; 
You shall hear. 
What is right and whatiswrang, by the law, by thelaw? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? 
What makes heroic strife famed afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet the assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



144 BURNS*S SONGS. 

I HAE A WIFE O' MY AIN. 
Tune — " N^ebody.*' 

I HAE a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There — thanks to naebody; 

I hae naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord ; 

I'll be slave to naebody ; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody ; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 



NITHSDALE'S WELCOME HOME. 

Tee noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border. 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagles' towers, 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare, Terreagles fair, 

For their abode they choose it; 
There's no a heart in a' the land. 

Bat's lighter at the news o't. 

Though stars in skies may disappear. 

And angry tempests gather, 
The happy nour may soon be near 

That brings uo pleasant weather : 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow; 
So dawning day has brought relief; 

Farewecl our night o' sorrow! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 145' 

MY COLLIER LADDIE. 
Tune—'' The Collier Laddie." 

Vhere live ye, my bonnie lassie ? 

And tell me what tliey ca' ye ; 
|My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the collier laddie. 
|My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the collier laddie. 

I See you not yon hills and dales, 

The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 
They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 

Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 
They a' are mine, and they shall he thine, 
Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 

Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

Weel buskit up sae gaudy; 
And ane to wait on every hand. 

Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 
And ane to wait on every hand. 

Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. 

Though ye had a' the sun shines on, 

And the earth conceals sae lowly ; 
I wad turn my back on you and it a', 

And embrace my collier laddie. 
I wad turn my back on you and it a'. 

And embrace my collier laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day, 

And spen 't at night fu' brawlie ; 
And make my bed in the collier's neuk, 

And lie down wi' my collier laddie. 
And make m-y bed in the collier's neuk. 

And lie down wi' my collier laddie. 

Love for love is the bargain for me. 
Though the wee cot-house should baud me ; 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' ray collier laddie. 

And tlie world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' my collier laddie. 

L 



146 EUIINS'S SONGS. 

THE CAKLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 
T'wwe—"Ke.llybrfrn Braes." 

There lived a oarle on Kellyburn braes, 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prim- 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme^ 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do you fen ?" 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

" I've got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint ; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme ; 
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint : 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime." 

" It's neither your stot nor your ^taig I shall crave, 
. Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme ; 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime." 

" Oh welcome, most kindly," the blithe carle said ; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme ; 
" But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd ; 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime.' 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme ; 
Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e. 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

Then straight he maks fifty, the pick o' his band, 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme. 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand; 
And the thyme it is withered, and ruf ir* in prime. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 147 

j.'he carlin gaed througli them like ony wud bear, 
/ Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme ; 
Whae'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair ; 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; 
': Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme : 
" Oh, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime." 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, 

He was not in wedlock, thank Heaven, but in hell ; 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack : 
Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme? 

And to her auld husband he's carried her back ; 
And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime. 

'* I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme, 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime." 



TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 

To thee, loved Nith, thy gladsome plains. 
Where late wi' careless thought I ranged. 

Though pressed wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heai't unchanged. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Though memory there my bosom tear; 

For there he roved that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear! 



148 BURNS'S SONGS. 

AS.I WAS A-WANDERING. 
Tune — " Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 

As I was a-wandering ae midsumnier e'enin*, 

The pipers and youngsters were making their game; 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Wee], since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him ; 

I may be distressed, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

I couldna get sleeping till dawin for greetin', 

The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain ; 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 
I dinna envy him the gains he can win; 

1 rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to hinr. 



JOCKEY'S TAEN THE PAKTING KISS. 

Tune—'* Jockey's taen the parting kiss." 
Jockey's taen the parting kiss, 
• O'er the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my love, ye winds thatblaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my love, thou feathery snaw. 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukenin' be! 
He will think on her he l€>ves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 149 

LADY MARY ANN. 
Tune — " Craigbtown's growing." 

Oh, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa' ; 
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was the flower amang them a' : 
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 

Oh father ! oh father ! an ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college yet. 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossomed the sweeter it grew : 
For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an ailc; 
Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was its make : 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa that we hae seen; ^ 
But far better days I trust will come again. 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 
Tune — " Charlie Gordon's welcome hame." 

Out over the Forth I look to the north. 
But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; 

For far in the west lives he I loebest. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



I 



150 BURNS*S SONGS. 

THE CARLES OF DYSART. 
Tune — '* Hey ca* through.*' 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckbaven, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
For we hae mickle ado ; 

Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
For we hae mickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell. 
And we hae sangs to sing ; 

We hae pennies to spend. 
And we hae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin', 

Let them do the like. 

And spend the gear they win. 

LADY ONLIE. 

rwne— "The Ruffian's Rant." 

A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o* Bucky, 
They'll step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest lucky ! 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gieed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest lucky ! 

Lady Onlie, honest lucky. 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 151 

YOUNG JAMIE, PEIDE OF A' THE PLAIN 1 
Tune — " The carlin o' the glen." 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
Tlirough a' our lasses he did rove, 
And reigned resistless king of love: 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers; 
Or in the glens and rocky eaves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 

I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And changed with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
Eepentance I should buy sae dear: 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair,- 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair \ 



COMING THEOUGH THE RYE. 
Tune — " Coming through the rye.** 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye. 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 
Coming through the rye. 
Jemiy's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a body 
Commg through the glen. 

Gin a body kiss a body. 
Need the world ken ? . 



152 BURNS*S SONGS^. 

THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 
Tune — "Jacky Latin." 

Gat ye me, oh gat ye me, 

Oh gat ye me wi' naething, 
Eock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, - 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my guteher has 

A high house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonnie sel', 

The toss of Eeclefechan. 

Oh hand your tongue now Lucky Lahig, 

Oh hand your tongue and jauner ; 
I held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure ; 
But your green graff, now, Lucky Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 



SAE FAR AWA. 
^ Tune — " Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.** 

Oh, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart, 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a* things Maker art. 

That formed this fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert. 

So love to l^er, sae far awa : 
And nought can heal my bosom's smart, 

While, oh ! she is sae .far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

T feel but her's sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touched a beart, 

Than hers, the fair sae far awa» 



BURNS'S SONGS. 153 

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY. 
Tune—'' The Killogie. ' ' 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley I 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wf 

The bannocks o' barley ! 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ? 



AMANG THE TREES. 
Tune — ** The king of France, he rade a race." 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
*Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

Slie dirled them aff fa' clearly, O, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

Their capon crav;s and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O. 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cased, 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fired a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



154 BURNS'S SONGS. 

WAE IS MY HEART. 

Tune — " Wae is my heart." 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e*e ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. • 

Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle-green ;' 
For there he is wandering, and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



EOBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 



Robin shure in hairst, 

I shure wi' him ; 
Fieni a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I GAED up to Dunse, 

To wrap a wab o' plaiden; 

At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin? 

Was na Robin bauld. 
Though I was a cotter. 

Played me sic a trick. 
And me the eller's dochter ? 

Robin promised me 
A' my winter vittle ; 
■ Fient haet he had but three 
Goose feathers and a whittle. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 155 

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
Tune—** If thou'lt play me fair play." 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; ^ 

His royal heart was firm and true, M 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go! for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



ON A PLOQGH^LVN. 

As I was a- wandering ae morning in spring, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing ; 
And as he was singing thir words he did say, 
There's nae life like the ploughman's in themonth o' 
sweet May. 

The laverock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest. 
And moimt to the air wi' the dew on her breast, 
Aud wi'the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing, 
And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



156 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE CARDIN' O'T. " 
Tune—'' Salt-fish and dumplingg." 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat^to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I loe him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin* o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the linin' o't. 

For though his locks be lyart grey, 
And though his brow be bald aboon : 

Yet I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



THOUGH CRUEL FATE. 

Though cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line. 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Though mountains frown and dfeserts how). 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 157 

HERE'S A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Heke's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, ma-n ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man ; 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes na aye when sought, man. 



JOHN nBM>EKSO>, PKINTER, BIr LFaST. 



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